


Hoarfrost in her Eyes

by curlyfriesandfrosties



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Cousin Incest, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Language, Reunion Fic, Season 7 compliant, Season/Series 07 Spoilers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:11:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 39,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curlyfriesandfrosties/pseuds/curlyfriesandfrosties
Summary: "She condensed her rage, bit-by-bit into a wall of frosted stones that could never be melted. Each icy block was made by a frostbitten memory. And she buried any hint of friendship or suggestion that he may have helped her – that memories of him and her family had brought her out of the darkness of the Faceless men – deep within the fortress of snow and hate within her mind."Gendry Waters is reunited with Arya Stark when Jon Snow and Queen Daenerys make their way to Winterfell, but the reunion is not as happy as one might expect.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic! I have been an avid reader of fanfiction for quite some time and I finally screwed up the courage to give it a shot myself. Thank you for reading!

Gendry, now a man grown, and a warrior at that, sat on his horse thinking he was going to throw up all over the King of the North’s loaned-out saddle. And not just for the discomfort of the mare’s crooked gait.

Though he would admit, he hated horses. Always had and, it seemed, always would. Once he had hated them because only stuffy noblemen and Gold Cloaks got around on them in Flea Bottom – the great beasts could easily run you over and knock out any urchin on the street. Now, even having learned to ride years ago, he still felt sick when he rode. He had once confided this in one of the Brotherhood, saying that the horses frightened him with their size, that the way he had to balance with that strange off-kilter walk made him nauseous. Thoros, or perhaps Lem, had assured Gendry that he would get used to it. Learn to like it even. Gendry felt no such thing. Horses, as far as he was concerned, were only good for sore thighs and an even sorer arse. However, his dislike of riding was not the reason he feared he would be sick on this particular morning.

All of them – he, the remaining members of the Brotherhood, the King, the Dragon Queen, her advisers and the rest of the lot - were headed to Winterfell: for Jon Snow, home, and for Gendry, a nightmare. _She_ was waiting there.

He’d been stuck on Dragonstone during the infamous meeting with Cersei Lannister – for fear that the woman would either try to kill him or kill the rest of the good Court for allowing him to live. He’d been stuck on the boat with the Queen and King – or whatever Jon was now – while they traveled to the mainland from Dragonstone. And then he was stuck waiting, again, while Jon and the Dragon Queen got all of their retinue together and the high-borns (or was Gendry now a high-born?) waited for Lady Sansa of Winterfell to reply to Jon’s message: about the wight, the Queen Daenerys, the meeting with Cersei, and the war to come. They had stopped in the first keep belonging to a house loyal to Jon and waited. Jon, by some miracle, convinced the Lord to temporarily trust the Dragon Queen and her children who flew above their caravan.

Sansa’s reply had been swift and tinged with worry. Gendry had been invited to the combined council table when it came – whether it was because he was technically a Baratheon or because he had saved Lord Jon’s life, Gendry didn’t know or care. Jon had read the majority of the letter aloud and it had contained a number of startling revelations, for the both of them.

First, Sansa had been terrified for her brother the entire time. That much was revealed from the wording of the letter. Stiff and formal but it hinted at the fear a dear and trusted sister should have if her brother had to go over the wall, catch an undead demon, and display it in front of the madwoman who currently ruled the seven kingdoms.

Second, Sansa had kept the favor of the northern Lords for Jon. It was unclear how they would react if they knew Jon had bent the knee or even how the Lady of Winterfell felt about her brother’s choice. That part of the letter had been too concise to reveal any information.

Third, Winterfell had been and was preparing for war. Sansa had insisted on extra stores and was requesting, from all other houses nearby, extra hands, including blacksmiths who would have to learn to forge the dragonglass that was being carted along by the Queen Daenerys and Jon. Sansa seemed worried about this, but Jon was not. He had received word, not three days before, that his friend and brother from the Night’s Watch, Samwell Tarly, was returning from the Maester’s roost at Oldtown with the secrets they needed to forge the ancient material.

This revelation – not about the dragonglass, but that Jon was dearest friends with a Tarly – had caused quite an upset. Gendry didn’t know what the relationship between the Queen and the once-King was, but it hadn’t been an easy evening when it became clear that Daenerys had roasted Lord Tarly and his other son in their armour at the battle against the Lannister men. This was resolved when Jon had not seemed upset in the least, but perhaps a little gratified that the apparently cruel and heartless man was dead. More on the situation could not be detected by Gendry, and really he didn’t care to know with the politics of it all.

Sansa also revealed, with a hint of apparent satisfaction, that Lord Baelish was dead: executed on Sansa’s orders for plotting against her and Jon. There was no further explanation. Jon, though pensive, had seemed somewhat pleased with this news, stating, essentially, that the Lord had been a lying, conniving snake.

The final piece of information had given Jon pause, and he seemed to take a moment to collect himself before he read it aloud. Gendry had only once seen Jon Snow so close to breaking with emotion, and it was not when nearest death. It had been when Jon had spoken to Gendry, the Hound, and the Brotherhood about his siblings who he believed to be dead. He’d looked surprisingly close to tears upon learning that that Arya and Bran were seen alive by many members of the group, even if that had been years ago. So, after having collected himself, Jon first read that Bran was alive. Alive and “in an odd state.” Gendry knew from speaking with Jon and the others that Bran – and a few unknown companions – had gone over the Wall in search of something and had last been seen by Samwell Tarly and his … Gilly. Whatever Bran had been looking for had been found apparently, and Bran was changed. Jon seemed unsettled by this but kept reading. He seemed even more taken aback by the final paragraph of the letter: Arya, his youngest sister, was alive. She had always been alive, not killed at the Red Wedding, or by the Hound, or even after that. Arya had found her way back to Winterfell after six years of not being seen or heard of in Westeros. According to Sansa, Arya, too, had been changed, but the Lady did not say in what way.

When Jon read this, he had looked the happiest he could be for someone who was often so brooding. He had actually smiled; in fact, many at the table had smiled, with the knowledge that the little she-wolf of Winterfell had somehow made it home. Even the Hound had looked slightly pleased, that his tormentor and his captive had lived. Gendry was frozen. He didn’t know what to think. The person he had thought dead, his best friend, his companion, and the reason he had known to trust Jon, was _alive_. That pain-in-his-arse who’d invited him into her pack had lived.

Gendry’s first coherent thought was that he shouldn’t be surprised, even if she had survived by spite alone. Then his thoughts were racing along: would she remember him? What would she look like? Would he even recognize her? What about that damned list she was always whispering? Had she kept it? Who was on it? Had she been the one to kill Walder Frey? How had she done it? Where had she been? Where on the gods’ green earth had she been?

Gendry was interrupted from his reverie by the Hound who said with ire, “I best be leaving your company then. I won’t continue on to Winterfell unless I want that she-devil to try to kill me with that little prick she calls a sword.”

Needle. The hound meant Needle of course. Then his statement settled in Gendry’s mind. Arya likely would try to kill the Hound and the rest of the members of the brotherhood. She might even try to kill him. Gendry’s blood went cold. She would certainly try to kill him, and would likely do better at it than she had when she was younger. He’d refused to become a member of her family, announcing stoically that he wouldn’t want to serve her brothers … which he was doing now. He was agreeing to come live at Winterfell and smith and fight for her Lord brother which he had once adamantly refused to do. He had left her for the Brotherhood without banners, thinking that he wanted to train up with them. And then he’d left her again – well sort of. He hadn’t put up too much of a fight when they sold him to the Red Priestess. And finally he hadn’t gone after her. He’d spent all these gods-damned years in a forge stupidly thinking she was dead when he could’ve been looking for her or doing something worth his while.

She was going to kill him. If she still had Needle she was going to slash him open nice and quick. The rest of the table had been laughing along with the Hound’s joke. The Hound hadn’t been serious in his fear of Arya, probably thinking that she had spent these years on the streets or in the wilds and was still no more fearsome than she had been at three and ten. Gendry knew better, knew _her_ better. So he excused himself from the room and went to sit on window sill on the inside of the keep. He’d felt sick and the feeling had lasted.

Now, almost two weeks later, Gendry still felt nauseous. He could admit that he was afraid. Not afraid for his life any longer – no he had miraculously convinced himself that he could take her if it came to that – but fear of how she would react. She’d likely hate him. And keep hating his guts until the world came to an end and/or winter came for them all.

The only things that distracted Gendry from his morbid thoughts were those senses which he could not ignore. One, he was freezing. Absolutely freezing his balls off and so was everyone except Jon and the other Northerners – and the Wildlings but they could be counted as Northerners he supposed. Two, Gendry was increasingly distracted by the dragons flying overhead and roaring, somehow unaffected by the cold. The Queen’s children would occasionally swoop down and spook those horses that did not belong to the Queen’s cavalry. The Dothraki and their mounts were apparently unafraid of the monsters that could roast them all. No, they kept walking while Gendry flinched every time one dragon got near, every time his horse skittered.

They marched for another three hours before they could spot anything. It had been an early morning departure, with Jon eager to return to Winterfell and the others longing for a warm hearth (Gendry had dragged his feet throughout the preparations to move, dread settling over him). Now it was noon and the party spotted the Keep of Winterfell on a far hill as they crested another. Jon seemed inclined to holler with joy and the rest of the party took in the massive sleeping fortress with quiet awe. Gendry knew what castles looked like, had lived in the shadow of the Red Keep the majority of his life. But this was different. It was squat and stout and old. Winterfell seemed as old as the Wall had, and thrummed with the same unwelcoming energy. It told Southerners to turn around and run for the hills. It was a sleeping beast, a giant wolf. Arya had said as much when she described her home.

As they rode closer Gendry could make out two features different from Arya’s stories. Firstly, there were burn marks all along the great walls and places where the stone had crumbled. It had been attacked recently. All of its original residents had been killed by the Bolton lord and it was in need of upkeep –care which was slowly being administered by Lady Sansa and the army of people the other lords brought along. There were places where the walls were being repaired and others where walls were being fortified. Some of the lower ones seemed to have been built taller. The second thing Gendry noted, with no small amount of dread, were the enormous direwolf banners swaying in the cold winter wind. If the castle itself wasn’t enough to make enemies haul for the hills, the snarling insignia was.

They approached closer and as they did so Gendry slowly drifted towards the back of the lordly party, to fall in line with Ser Davos and the Brotherhood. Jon and Daenerys surged forward and, as one of the dragons landed on the highest keep and roared, the gates of Winterfell opened for them.

* * *

 

Gendry and the others rode through the gates with the King of the North (Lord of the North? Keeper of the North?) urging his horse through at a full gallop. Gendry didn’t see the rest of the Stark family exit the castle, but he heard a number of gasps as the distinguished King jumped from his horse and ran to embrace his siblings. Gendry could not see in the commotion of dismounting, but eventually he spotted Jon on his knees, at level with a man in a wheeled-chair – Bran, Gendry recalled – and a woman with red hair weeping – the supposedly stoic Lady Sansa. Lord Bran did not fully return Jon’s embrace, but merely patted him on the shoulder an eyed the caravan with unnerving calm. They boy’s – man’s – eyes seemed far away, only focusing when Jon stood to his full height and began speaking with him. Bran said something that Jon brushed off. He persisted and Gendry heard something about “important matters,” but he didn’t have time to process whatever that meant because Arya stepped from an open doorway.

She looked the same. Or as much as she could look the same having grown up into a woman. Same scraggly-cut hair, same favor for tunic over a dress, and the same sword hanging on her belt. However, Gendry noticed in an instant what Sansa had said about different. Her walk was unnaturally smooth, her face a mask of composure when he’d thought it would be expressive in joy. She walked to Jon and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He turned round and his face lit up as he picked her up and spun her around – his favorite sister back from the dead. She smiled and it didn’t quite reach her eyes as Gendry new it should. Her eyes … in fact her eyes retained the same passive expression. Blank, cold, calculating. Even more empty than they had once seemed in anger. Jon put her down and they embraced again. Jon remarked that she still had Needle and before Gendry could form a proper thought the happy reunion was over.

All the Starks turned their faces to the retinue with quick assessment. Bran continued to gaze at everything with glassy eyes, but Sansa regarded the Queen and bowed low. Perhaps not low enough for her apparent ruler, but low enough that Daenerys deemed the response suitable, stepped down from her horse, and introduced herself. Lord Tyrion also appeared and, though Sansa seemed shocked at first – perhaps because the Lord dwarf had once been her husband, thought to be dead – she retained her composure quickly and bowed, though more curtly than she had to the Queen.

Jon sought to begin a round of introductions and formalities when Arya said, loudly, from the other side of the courtyard: “you!” Gendry panicked, fearing she was speaking to him, but calmed slightly when he realized she was pointing at the Hound. She stalked over to him, lithe and graceful as a street cat, but equally as feral and mad. Clegane inclined his head and said mockingly, “the little princess made it home and pretends not to be a tyrant.” Gendry thought Arya would kill him for the insult – calling her princess would result in certain death. But instead Arya drawled “The Hound thinks himself a hero because he doesn’t fear the flame.” A few in their party seemed to choke on their own breath.  The Hound smiled a savage grin which Arya returned, and it seemed to Gendry that she had grown pointed teeth.

She said, “it will please you most, Ser Clegane, that I’ve decided to spare you in light of your heroics – especially given that you somehow managed to survive my leaving you on that mountainside. Perhaps you aren’t such a useless dog after all.” The Hound sketched a false bow and said with equal ire “I am most gracious, dear she-wolf for my life and your forgiveness.” Arya laughed now, a high cold thing, “Hound, meet me in the sparring ring and we’ll see if you can earn that.” Then she turned and began speaking to Jon.

In the wake of that banter she seemed lighter somehow, as though cut-throat discussions usually eased her nerves. The Hound merely walked off to begin easing packs off the horses. Gendry stood behind his horse and tried to seem invisible. Not that it would last long considering his stature, but his location with the others seemed hiding place enough. He was revealed far too soon. Jon called over to him “Gendry.” Arya’s face whipped to the side. In the previous moment she had seemed more at ease, under her brother’s arm. Then she was living rage.

She turned on Gendry with an expression of such shock, such anger he knew he should start running. She inched toward him and said in that same high, cold voice from before “Gendry Waters …. Baratheon now apparently. Gendry Baratheon.” He backed away slightly, like you might try to escape from an enraged wild animal. The courtyard seemed to quiet. Maybe Jon was saying something to Arya but she unsheathed Needle and held it at her side, advancing faster now. He took out his loaned longsword and held in front of him. It wasn’t his hammer but he’d take anything in this moment. Their weapons clanged and he just stopped her from slashing his face. She was so fast. She parried and started dancing around him while he frantically tried to block her. “Gendry” she said with a laugh and nicked his shoulder. “Gendry who know ‘Arry.” Slash. “Gendry who would never work for a lord.” Slice. “Gendry who wouldn’t serve those overgrown high-borns.” Slash. “Gendry the smith. Gendry the bull-headed fighter. Gendry who couldn’t stand the thought of subservience to a Stark brother.” She was laughing now, manically, laughing with a smile that did indeed reach her eyes. They shone with bloodlust. She disarmed him. His sword flew. She lauched herself at him, jumped on his back, wrapped her legs around his throat and brought him down. She pinned him and continued laughing saying “Gendry, Gendry, Gendry, the bastard smith. Gendry the bull-headed, bastard son of a whore.” Jon was yelling now, but Gendry didn’t make out what he was saying. Arya leaned in and whispered “Gendry wouldn’t have come here. Even the bull wasn’t that stupid. I know what you are,” and then she brought something hard and heavy down upon his head.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“How … how is she?”_
> 
> _Jon’s face tightened. He did seem surprised that Gendry wasn’t boiling mad but he was likely more concerned for his little sister. He said “I don’t know. Even the Maester doesn’t really know. Sansa has an idea but …” he stopped and looked about. “These are private matters, so I’d like to speak to you about this later. And join us for council when you’re ready.” The thought of all those negotiations and arguing made Gendry feel slightly sick again, but Jon was already walking away._
> 
> _“Yer Grace, I might have an idea about ‘er.”_
> 
> _Jon turned and nodded before walking the rest of the way back to his table._

Gendry woke with a throbbing headache and not a fucking clue where he was. He sat up and then instantly regretted it. His head was pounding, vision swimming, and it’d been a damn long time since he’d known pain like this.

“Sit back lad. You’ll only make it worse.” Ser Davos came into focus and a man who must have been Winterfell’s Maester.

When his nausea eased, and his vision focused again, with his head back on the pillow, Gendry asked, to no one in particular, “What in seven-hells happened?”

Davos answered “The little lady of Winterfell attacked you for gods-know what reason. She knocked you out with a big fat rock and her brother, the King, had to pry her offa you. After that, well, she went mad. Started screaming her head off and kicking and fighting. Nearly slashed up one of the lords and bit Maester Wolkan. They had to tie her down to the bed with leather straps.”

Gendry’s mouth went dry. She was that angry. “And me?” Gendry asked.

The old Maester said, “not too much to be concerned with thank-the-gods. Bloodied up head and a whole bunch of scratches, but an easy fix with some bandages and poultice. Of course you’ll have a nasty headache.”

“Yeah I can feel that.”

“You’ll be back at work in no time. And His Grace will see you soon, everyone was a bit worried.”

Gendry pondered this. His slight surprise that the King would be concerned for him. Perhaps they’d become friends. But this was too complex an issue with that horrendous headache and he had more pressing thoughts. He asked, quietly, “Ser Davos?” 

The older man hummed in response.

“Why? I mean why did she do this? We thought she was gonna kill the Hound? Why me? Well not, why me, but … what’s wrong with ‘er?”

Davos looked grim. He glanced at the Maester who gave a nod for Davos to continue. “Well, lad … you remember what the Lady of Winterfell said in her letter right? That she’d changed?”

Gendry nodded.

“Well … it ain’t for the better. Whatever happened to that lass was enough to put even a tough girl like her in a right state, apparently. She won’t talk about where she went or what she did … Lady Sansa has some suspicions that she won’t share, but all we knows is that Arya Stark left Winterfell a girl and came back a killer. She could’ve killed you had she been in the mood for a quick death.”

Gendry thought on this. Ser Davos was right. The little Arya he had known was quick and mean but that woman he had met in the courtyard …  she was a beast. A more capable assassin than any person he’d seen yet. She’d intended to bloody him up then beat him to death with a _stone_.

The Maester continued for Davos, “It’s true. She doesn’t seem to be in the right of mind. She was screaming all sorts of things when we pulled her off of you and she’s been muttering nonsense for days since. We haven’t even unbound her. She will only trust her sister and her brother to bring her food and even then she keeps sniffing it for poison.”

Ser Davos said, “She was spouting all kinds of madness. About faces and people hunting her down an’ such. Eventually she started talking in Braavosi which who knows where in the world she picked up that.”

A thought was forming in Gendry’s head. Braavosi … faces … something tickled the edges of his mind.

Davos continued, “She looked so afeard. Like, of any of us, any one she doesn’t know, would kill ‘er. All these people who serve her brother faithfully and she don’t trust a one. The queen said she did understand one thing the little lass was saying. Something in dear-gods High Valyrian. All men must die or some shite.”

The thought was there. Just at the edge. Curse his pounding head.

“And when the King and the Lady ask ‘er who she’s afraid of, who’s after her, she just says no one. Screaming, ‘no one, no one.’”

No One. The words rang like a bell in Gendry’s head. Jaqen H’ghar, or whoever the hell he was, had said something about No One. He said something about faces. Gave Arya a Braavosi coin and taught her words in some Esterosi tongue. He had been a silent killer. Snuck around with that same unearthly gait and smooth calm. Gendry remembered that H’ghar had made some kind of offer to Arya. And after Gendry had left, after he’d been kidnapped and Clegane nearly killed and her family thought dead, she must have been desperate enough to take it.

 

* * *

 

Gendry was in and out of sleep for the next few days. When he woke at sunrise on the third day, his head had stopped pounding. Maester Wolkan came by and left him a bundle of clothes, saying that he could break his fast in the hall with everyone else. So Gendry dressed, trying not to disturb his injuries – which were much deeper than a few cuts for certain.

The Maester had neglected to tell Gendry where the hall was but fortunately the courtyard was full of people, even at the early hour, and a stable-boy named Tobias pointed him in the right direction.

The hall was boisterous with soldiers, workers, lords, and their men. Jon was even seated on the lower level with Tormund and some other Wildlings while his sister, Lord Tyrion, the Queen, and the Queen’s advisor – Missanie? Missandei? – sat at the high table. The tension between Lady Sansa, Lord Tyrion, and the Queen was palpable, but he elected to ignore it lest too much thinking bring back his pounding headache.

He sat near the Brothers with some bread and mead and was quietly making his way to his third slice when Jon approached. He came and sat next to Gendry who inclined his head just a bit.

“How are you doing? Your head I mean.”

“Not too bad. Aches all gone and I got some cuts, but I’ll be working in the forge soon enough.”

Jon gave a small smile that looked more like a grimace. Gendry said, unable to keep the concern from his voice, “How … how is she?”

Jon’s face tightened. He did seem surprised that Gendry wasn’t boiling mad but he was likely more concerned for his little sister. He said “I don’t know. Even the Maester doesn’t really know. Sansa has an idea but …” he stopped and looked about. “These are private matters, so I’d like to speak to you about this later. And join us for council when you’re ready.” The thought of all those negotiations and arguing made Gendry feel slightly sick again, but Jon was already walking away.

“Yer Grace, I might have an idea about ‘er.”

Jon turned and nodded before walking the rest of the way back to his table.

 

* * *

 

The day passed without much fanfare for Gendry. The Maester deemed him well enough to help the Queen’s army with the rest of preparations, so he spent a better part of the day outside the gates of the keep, helping the Dothraki and others set up camp. They’d be digging treches soon. Trenches the queen hoped to fill with icy water if it would keep the dead out – like the deep lake had for a time in the Wilds. Gendry doubted that would be any help but nodded along anyways.

After the evening meal, which Gendry took in a little outbuilding near the warmth of the kitchens, Jon sought him out. First, they went to the smith and introduced him. He got a bit of the feel for the place and promised to be working under the Master soon. The smith merely replied that he was no Master, the master smith was dead, and they went on their way.

While they walked up to a new wing of the keep, Jon filled Gendry in on various news. They hadn’t told the lords who Gendry was. They hadn’t told the lords about Jon’s bending the knee to Daenerys, and they hadn’t told anyone about Arya’s … condition. They had merely suggested to the Lords that there was an alliance to be forged and that was that.

Apparently, Bran had yet to talk to Jon about his “important news” either, as Jon brooded over the need to meet. Bran, for some reason, wanted to wait to speak to Jon until Samwell Tarly arrived. All of Bran’s other news had been riddles. This pained Jon, clearly, even though he swept aside Gendry’s concern. These matters were of course very personal, and Jon was never the sharing type.

They rounded a final set of stairs and entered a small chamber with a large table and a roaring fireplace. Lady Sansa was already seated in addition to the Maester, Ser Davos, and Bran – who was actually pulled up to the table in the wheeled chair. Gendry bowed low to Lady Sansa and did not dare take a seat until Jon had taken one first. Respect was of the utmost importance and Gendry was already uncomfortable, given that this seemed to be a private family affair which he did not feel welcome to partake in.

Lady Sansa started, her voice more rough and cold than Gendry anticipated it to be, coming from such a regal face, “We need to discuss Arya. We need to figure out … what to do with her. Something is not right and has not been right since she arrived at Winterfell. I know very little about where she was or what she was doing only …” she grimaced, “some very unhappy facts.”

Jon spoke, “Has she been like that always? Violent? Wanting to hurt others … or herself?”

Sansa shook her head, “She arrived here about three moons ago fresh-faced and relatively clean with a few weapons on her and a very tired horse. She’s been training every day and generally keeping to herself. Then…” she trailed off.

Jon pushed “Then what, Sansa?”

“Then there was the debacle with Lord Baelish. He was convinced that she was here to hurt me. To usurp me or some matter. She had been cold and rather frightening when I spoke to her. Cryptic. Then Baelish insisted that she was following me, plotting something. And following him.” She took a deep breath, “She was, of course, following him. Arya is smart enough to know not to trust that snake, but I feared that what he said was true. Then one day I went snooping – thought I likely shouldn’t have.” She continued, “I went into her room and looked around. She had few belongings, but then I found a case under the mattress. I opened it fearing to find poison or weapons or notes but I found …” she looked revolted.

“Sansa, what did you find?” Jon asked gently.

“Faces. Skins of men and women’s’ faces. Like masks.”

A shock of silence went around the table. Gendry thought he might be sick. His Arya to have been that gruesome.

Sansa went on, “She caught me and started saying these awful things. About how she would … would skin me and wear my face as a mask. She would … take Winterfell, be beautiful for herself. See how it was to rule.”

Sansa’s face was ashen. Jon looked positively disgusted, as did the Maester. Only Bran looked un-phased.

“Later I learned all that talk was for the sake of Lord Baelish, listening at my door. But the faces… She knows how to wear them. Put them on and become someone else. She insisted that she became no one.” She quieted for a moment then went on, “Lord Baelish told me something about assassins called the Faceless men. Told me that she had been one of them. But that’s all I knew and who knows if that is right, given the source was that traitorous weasel.”

There was silence for a long time.

Finally, Bran spoke. “The Faceless Men are assassins and they are not – they think of themselves as priests. I have seen them. Their comings and goings on this earth. They do not bring harm to those who are not named.”

His eyes seemed even farther away now, as thought he was peering across the world. “They live in Braavos. An ancient order who worships the Many-Face God, the God of death. Someone in need may drink the poison water in their holy fountain to end a lifetime of suffering. Others pay for their services and name targets. The Faceless Men carry out the justice that they wish for and when the debt – when death – has been repaid, they take the face of the person they kill. They make it as a mask which they can wear.”

He paused and thought, looking harder into space. “They have acolytes who give themselves wholly to the Faceless God. They must give up their names, their identities. They train to be fierce killers and can never leave the order.” He paused again, “they must become no one.”

Gendry’s blood turned to ice. That is how Jaqen had killed those men. That is how he crept around so silently, how he was never found to be guilty of murdering those men at Harrenhal. That’s what Arya had done, become No One.

Jon spoke at last, “If that’s what she is, this faceless assassin with no identity, how is she here? Why is she here? If she is not Arya, then why kill Lord Baelish. Why come to Winterfell.”

Sansa said, “She must not have completed this … ritual. Must not have been able to become … no one.”

Jon retorted, “Then she would be dead, right Bran?”

Bran replied “Yes … and no. Arya was no one. She succeeded … and failed. She killed and was almost killed. But she … she could not complete it.”

The Maester spoke up, “That explains the scar.”

Jon said, “What scar?”

The Maester grimaced and replied, “Enormous scar all the way across her stomach. And four or five in her upper abdomen. It looks as though someone stabbed her, multiple times, and then sliced her open.”

Jon looked as sick as Gendry felt. “So they tried to kill her? And failed?”

 Bran answered “No. She was dead, in fact, for a few seconds after that injury. She fought with the Gods to let her back. She had a task to complete and could not abandon it. Not to become no one. Not to death.”

Gendry spoke, his voice crackling as it came out, “Her list.”

Jon looked at him inquisitively.

He answered “Her list for … revenge. When we were traveling she kept a list of people who she would … kill. People who’d hurt her family, the man who killed her father, the Hound for killing some boy. She would recite the list every night before she went to sleep.”

Sansa straightened and said with some ire, “It is no shock that Arya would keep living for revenge.”

Gendry did not smile and continued, “She definitely joined those … Faceless men. We met one at Harrenhal, she saved his life on our original route up to the Wall and he repaid her with … death. He killed the people we needed him to, so we could escape. And then he gave her some Braavosi coin. Said something like ‘go to Braavos if you should need it.’ I guess …. I guess after I was taken and the Hound was dead and she thought all ‘er remaining family was dead or out of reach – you, Lady Sansa, lost to Kings Landing, your aunt, Lady of the Vale dead, and you, Yer Grace, up over the Wall – I guess she thought she didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Jon seemed to want to press the issue – ask for more of the story which Gendry had not told him, especially because it was common knowledge that no one survived Harrenhal – but Sansa spoke first.

 “So, Arya went over to Braavos, trained to become one of these … assassins, failed her training, left, and now fears that they hunt for her. People who can look like anyone. It is no wonder she went mad.”

Bran said, suddenly in the quiet, “She thought you were one of them. She thought that you had come to kill her. Because you are so different from what she remembers.”

“She was saying that Gendry Waters would never serve a high-born. That the person she knew wouldn’t do what you’ve done,” Jon looked confused.

Gendry explained, “A long time ago she said … she offered to let me be part of her family. When your Lord-brother Rob was fighting. She said we could go to him and I could be his blacksmith and it would all be just right. She could fight and never have to be a lady and I could work for her brother. Back then … that didn’t sit well, if you can see. Me, being a bastard, having to work for my friend’s brother – a servant. I thought she was treating me like a base-born, just some common smith, and I got angry and said I never would. I don’ think she ever forgave me for that.”

Jon was silent for a bit, then said “So Arya thought you wouldn’t serve me and given that she probably thought you were dead, she assumed that you were … just a Faceless man wearing the skin of Gendry.” Jon seemed unable to process this – his face knotted in the most intense brooding look Gendry had seen yet.

Sansa was silent for a time, closing her eyes. Then she let out a slow breath and asked, “What are we to do now?” She looked to the Maester.

He said, “she is suffering from mental trauma, intense fear the likes of which I am untrained to deal with. She essentially needs … a mind healer if such a thing were to exist. There is nothing we can do.”

Bran spoke, “No. and yes. She needs healing in her mind but there is something we can do. She must learn to trust. Trust us. Trust Ser Gendry here.”

Sansa snorted, a sound which Gendry had not anticipated she were capable of making, “getting Arya to trust people sounds like pulling teeth. Even as children she never liked anyone but Jon. She kept secrets from everyone. I’m sure you know …er … Ser Gendry what she was like.”

He remembered. She didn’t like to tell anyone anything. She hoarded her secrets like a dragon with gold. “Yes. It sounds right impossible.” Jon’s head seemed to slump ever so slightly. “But I’ll try. Anything to help ‘er.”

The Maester said, “She will have to remain restrained. So she doesn’t hurt you or herself in her fear and fury.”

Then it was over. No one else had much to say, so Gendry bid the lordly folks goodnight and walked down to his chambers with the Maester. He could hear the Stark siblings murmuring behind the door.

When he lay down in the bed, Gendry found he could not fall asleep. It was too soft, like a snow pile seeking to swallow him whole, and his thoughts were reeling. Arya was alive. Arya hated him … or maybe she didn’t hate him but she hated the Faceless men. Or maybe both. She wanted to kill him either way. She was terrified of him – like a wild wolf faced with a hunter in the winter. She felt like prey and she hated it. Arya who had never feared a damn thing was terrified. Arya …  who he’d never stopped thinking about was alive and wanted to kill him. He really hadn’t stopped thinking about her, that little girl called Arry. He’d thought her dead, and held her locked away inside him with all the other people he cared about – who were also dead. Yet here she was: alive and absolutely raving mad. He finally fell asleep thinking he would do anything to right it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is written and I'm in the editing process. Hopefully it will be finished by next Friday. Thank you for your comments and kudos and please keep reading! Again if you notice any inconsistencies with Season 7 please comment!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Mornin’ m’lady.”_
> 
> _Her eyes flashed at that. Not anger as it may have once been, but recognition? As if she knew that the old Gendry had said that. Then there was betrayal._
> 
> _“It would be like you to learn everything before you killed him,” she said, “to learn about the man before you take his face and plot my death.”_

Arya woke in an unfamiliar bed and began to struggle. Strapped down, her weapons nowhere in sight- where was she? Harrenhal? Was this an illusion? A dream? Had she been caught by the Freys?

Then she remembered where she was. The fourth day … no, this was the third day of her … confinement. Captivity in her own home. She was strapped down in a bed near the Maester’s quarters because everyone thought she was mad. Because he was here: No One was in Winterfell.

She had thought they would stop searching for her. Foolishly thought that her debts had been paid when she killed the waif. Even more foolishly she’d thought that they wouldn’t track her – that they would have no interest in seeking her out halfway across the world since at least someone’s blood had been spilled to the service of the Many-Faced God. She was wrong.

Her blood chilled before she could tamp down her fear. One of the most dangerous killers alive was in Winterfell, in her home. Her family was completely vulnerable and unknowing while she was stuck strapped to a bed. She needed to get out of these confines, to track down the man – or woman – wearing Gendry’s face and kill them before any harm could come to anyone at Winterfell. Before they could make another mask.

This … thing, person, whatever, had studied her. The person wearing the mask of Gendry had known that his face would pull at something in her heart she had tried to snuff out. They knew what he … meant to her and they had taken his face to spite her.

Or maybe they hadn’t. Maybe it was coincidence that Gendry’s face was the mask they had chosen…  

No. They must have known that Arya would know Gendry was dead. But … it was stupid to choose a face Arya would know the whereabouts of – a face she knew _must_ be six feet under and had buried in her thoughts long ago … this was all nonsense. A ridiculous conundrum designed to confuse and frighten her.

They had some plan hatched. Arya began to struggle against those damned leather straps –gods-know when _those_ had been put in. Ramsey, the fucking sadist, had probably had them installed. He seemed like the type to have the Maester heal victims against their will so he could torture them some more.

Arya absolutely had to get out, she had to make a plan to protect her family, she had to…

There was shuffling in the hallway, far down. She schooled her face into a mask of calm and cold, preparing herself. There might be a fight. She would break these infernal straps before she’d be killed like a weakling in bed.

Then she smelled the food and relaxed ever so slightly. Sansa must be bringing her the morning meal. But the door opened and revealed it was not Sansa who came to break her fast.

 

* * *

 

He woke the next morning very early, before the dawn, and immediately looked for the Maester. Gendry planned to bring Arya her morning meal, like a peace offering. Maybe she would trust the food, smell that it was not in fact poisoned, and start to trust him. And there was no time like the present to begin …. whatever this process could be called.

Maester Wolkan gave him free reign to go speak to her and provided him with a key. Gendry stopped by the kitchens and grabbed a tray of roast meat, some brown bread, and water.

“No ale,” the Maester had said, though Gendry couldn’t imagine a tiny thing like Arya ever drinking a flagon of anything. He stopped outside the door to her sickchamber, located near the Maester’s workspace, and heaved a huge sign. Then he pushed open the door.

Her eyes were instantly upon him, feeling to him the same as blasting snow above the wall – eyes that were ice cold, so cold they burned. But she didn’t struggle with her bonds as she stared at him. Perhaps that was a good sign. So, he screwed up his courage ‘til it stuck and said, mouth dry as a midsummer’s day.

“Mornin’ m’lady.”

Her eyes flashed at that. Not anger as it may have once been, but recognition? As if she knew that the old Gendry had said that. Then there was betrayal.

“It would be like you to learn everything before you killed him,” she said, “to learn about the man before you take his face and plot my death.”

He startled and said, “What?”

She looked smug. “You even act like the dumb bull Master. But I know. You may even have Jon fooled but I know that _that_ ,” she said pointing to his face, “is a mask of flesh and sinew. We’ll see how long you torture me before you decide to kill me. What will it be? Poison? Blinding? Did you bring me some water of the faceless god?”

Gendry didn’t quite know how to respond so he merely said, “No, she-wolf I brought you bread an’ meat. But if you’d prefer the water of a death god I’d be happy to run to the kitchens.”

She blinked. At the sarcasm. At the tone. As if she couldn’t image that one of the Faceless men could mimic that emotion. Then she settled and barked, “the food.” He obliged and set the tray on her lap. She could not, of course, feed herself with her hands tied, but the Maester had insisted she remain restrained.

Gendry moved to help her, but she lunged at him. Nearly bit his finger off before he could snatch them back.

“What the fuck? I’m not trying to ‘urt you. I’m trying to feed you for gods-sakes.”

He backed off. She eyed him warily and said, “I’ll wait to eat until Jon or Sansa come.”

He grew frustrated too quickly.

“Arya it’s me. It’s me Gendry. We spent weeks on the road together an’ we were at Harrenhal. We got away because of that Jaqen bastard and ran into the damn brotherhood. An all sort o’ stuff happened but now you’re here at Winterfell and you’re safe. You’re my friend Arry.”

At that last statement Arya looked smug.

“The game of Faces Master? You’ve already failed. Whichever acolyte No One sent is not skilled enough. You should be lashed for your failure. Gendry Waters was _not_ my friend. He left me for the Brotherhood and the Red Priestess.” She said this with such conviction that he knew she believed it. He knew, that even though she thought he wasn’t Gendry, she disliked the real Gendry as much as she despised … No One.

“What is the Game of Faces?” he asked, legitimately confused.

She smiled her deadly smile again and said, “Fine. If you should like I’ll play.”

Then she went on to tell a story: Arya’s story. About leaving Winterfell and her father’s death and her escape from King’s Landing. Then she added, “And Arya Stark died on the road to the Wall when a group of Gold Cloaks killed all of the children; except the Bull who they took to Harrenhal to be a smith. They cut Arya Stark open with her own sword and ground her guts into the dirt.”

Gendry blinked. The way she said it was like it was true. He knew it wasn’t true, he knew Arya wasn’t dead, but she said it as if it was the plainest fact in the world. He fumbled over his response, “That’s not true … I know that isn’t true.”

She laughed. “Caught me there. Going to give me a lashing for it? I’ve lost the Game of Faces once again. Make me sweep the hall? Or clean the bodies? Want me to take a mask out and make a sacrifice?”

She kept rambling. Calling him No One or Master and saying awful … things. She described death and decay in such detail that Gendry knew she had been there. The bastards had put her through the ring of seven hells. She didn’t stop.

So he left. He got up and left her rambling, grinning in that maniacal way. She laughed as he closed the door.

 

* * *

 

He went to the forge and spent the whole day there. Gendry had asked the Maester that morning if he was good to wield a hammer and he had cleared him. He started with some easier pieces of basic armor that the other smith gave him. Given it’d been a while since he had worked, given that he’d nearly starved to death in the wilderness north of the wall and then spent months either bedridden or training with a sword, Gendry figured he was plenty strong but lacking finesse.

He spent the day hammering out his frustrations. Mad. Clang. She was mad. Clang. She’d never be Arya again. Clang. What’d those bastards done to her. Clang. She survived Harrenhal and the rats only to lose her sanity at the hands of Jaqen H’ghar’s people. Clang.

“Shit.” He’d knocked the breast plate off the anvil and it’d fallen on his foot with a thunk, bending it.

That night he went to bed with newfound resolve to fix her, to help her rather. All that shit she’d said … he wouldn’t let it happen. He’d convince her that he was Gendry … and then he’d have to convince her not to hate Gendry. Finally, he fell into an uneasy sleep. He dreamed about a hall of faces – faces of the dead he knew. It was washed in blood and Arya was wading through the filth.

 

* * *

 

He left her alone, thank the gods. She didn’t know what game they were playing, but she had survived one day. Not that he might not come again in the night. Not that he might not slit her throat while she slept. Not that Sansa might come to feed her and taste the food on the tray first.

Arya took a deep breath – she needed to think. It seemed that they weren’t going to kill her outright so there must be some other plan in motion.

If they wanted just Arya dead, it would probably have already happened. Someone … someone must have gone to the Faceless Men with a request. They likely wanted someone at Winterfell dead, or perhaps the Dragon queen. She had been in Esteros and had many, many enemies. Someone wanted a powerful person at Winterfell dead and would kill Arya too. Arya would be a bonus kill for the Faceless Men, and they knew that she would stand between them and their target. Littlefinger had known where she had been – he had deduced it with that snake mind. Maybe he had requested the attack on Arya or Sansa – again the fact that Arya was an enemy of the Faceless Men was likely a special prize since Baelish had been so good at negotiating.

So … they would try to kill Arya and, once they succeeded, they would kill whoever else was on the list.

She almost laughed. A list. It was her stupid list that had led to all this trouble. If she hadn’t killed Meryn Trant and hadn’t tried to come home … Not that she didn’t still plan to slaughter them all.

Whatever their reasons, Arya had to make a plan. This was going to be a game of wills and cunning. A dance of the minds not of the swords. Arya had options, since she didn’t know what their motivation was. She could try to escape her restraints and kill the bastard – cut the game off before it really began. She could wait, wait in her restraints as it seemed they wouldn’t kill her outright when Winterfell knew it. Perhaps they would not pick another target until she was dead. That was the most likely choice: they would kill Arya first, secretly, then take her face and use it to get close to Jon or Sansa or the Queen.

So … if they wouldn’t kill her with others knowing she would have to act first, but not without cunning. Jon and Sansa and the Maester might still think her mad if she just killed the false-Gendry. If she just killed Jon’s man without a thought – and a Baratheon no less.

She snorted – Gendry, bastard who’d seemed content to be so, had become a Baratheon lord. It was hilarious. How stupid could the Faceless Men be that they would study Gendry and not know that he would hate the titles, lords, castles, and his drunken, sleazy father.

Anyways, Arya couldn’t kill them without first revealing what they were to Jon. She would have to get them to take off the mask or at least disturb them, get them off balance …

And she knew no better way to piss of a Faceless acolyte than the Game of Faces. If her lies were so bad that the waif would smack her it must be a damned important thing. Or at least it would please her for entertainment while she thought of another plan. Yes, the Game of Faces would do nicely for now.

Footsteps down the hall, but this time they were loud enough that Arya recognized her sisters gait. Earlier she hadn’t known the steps the false-Gendry used. The bull had always shuffled along like some great hulking beast and this person had walked with more purpose – but with a slight limp. Like a lord with a rock in his boot. Arya noticed things like this now. Once she would never have known someone by the way they walked, but Syrio had taught her the importance of listening. And the Faceless Men had taught her that deaf ears made one a dead girl. Sansa’s hells clicked on the wooden floor and she opened the door with a clipped, “good morning.”

Arya nearly rolled her eyes like a child. Sansa was miffed at her.

Sansa said, “You chased off Ser Gendry with your … blathering.” She looked Arya straight in the eye, “That was incredibly rude, especially to refuse the food, which came straight from the kitchens.”

Arya couldn’t stand for this talk, this basic arguing, not when Sansa’s life was in danger. When she put the lives of everyone in Winterfell in danger with her ignorance. “He’s not Gendry, Sansa.”

Sansa looked perturbed and pursed her lips. Arya took a deep breath. “Sansa, I don’t want to scare you …”

“You won’t frighten me. I am not a child. And I know that you aren’t either,” she said and looked like she wanted to say more, “I know … I know that neither of us are innocent Arya. We both have blood on our hands.”

Arya couldn’t tell if Sansa was judging her choices or not but cut her off before she could continue, “Sansa, he, they, are one of the people I trained with. You remember the masks.”

Sansa nodded, gravely.

“He is wearing one of them. I know it, Gendry would never have taken the lordship and we are all in very real danger. I know …”

“Arya you do not know,” Sansa cut her off. “You do not know. You speak only from fear-”

“I am not afraid,” Arya said, her voice chilling at the implication that _she_ would ever fear. As if…

“Listen to me!” Sansa raised her voice and Arya decided to shut up. The lady didn’t raise her voice often now.

“Arya, I know that you went through something rather … traumatic. And I know you believe that this man is not your … companion Gendry. I know that you want to protect us but,” she sat on the bed and looked Arya in the eye, “I promise you are safe here. Ser Gendry is an honorable man who saved Jon’s life north of the wall. Since you knew him … he has changed. As you have changed and as I have changed. He grew up as we did.” Sansa’s eyes softened in the slightest, “he joined Jon because of you, he said. He knew he could trust Jon because of what you told him.”

Arya did not speak. They had her convinced – the Faceless one had convinced Sansa and likely the rest of Winterfell. They had been planning this for a time. And Arya would have to protect Sansa.

“Fine,” she lied. Even that one word was a lie for Arya. “I will permit him to visit, I suppose. Now may I please leave this gods-damned bed?”

Sansa nearly smiled, but then her face fell flat again. “Maester Wolkan says you are not to leave the room, be free of your … confines.” She grimaced, “you must stay restrained until the Maester has confirmed that you will not hurt yourself or anyone else. I’m sorry Arya.”

Arya blew out a breath, “Is there at least a way a can get out of bed to use the chamberpot?”

“Er … yes. You may but I cannot take the shackle off your ankle.” Arya looked down. Shackled. She was shackled to the damned bed and hadn’t even noticed.

“So be it. Just let me up.”

Sansa undid the straps at her arms, waist, and legs. Then Sansa said, “I cannot leave the room but you can … go.” Great.

Arya went about her business and then started to open the window. Sansa looked at her.

“You want me to leave it in the room?”

“A chambermaid can tend to that.” But before Sansa could stop her Arya opened the window – and threw the poisoned food sitting on the tray into the snow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify the bed-straps will not and will never be kinky! since my oh-so-eloquent editor pointed them out. Sorry this took so long to post - I've had a very rough week. The next few chapters are written; they need to be edited but are written so I hope they'll be up soon. Thank you so much for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Once more, she settled back against the pillow. He wouldn’t be back today and she could finally get some rest. She must get some rest before she was defenseless: exhaustion would make her loose focus and she hadn’t slept properly in days._
> 
> _At last, by sheer determination, she settled into a deeper sleep than she usually did in the night – though Arya Stark never really slept deeply anymore. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Rape mention

For the next week and a half Gendry went to Arya’s room every morning to bring her food. Every morning it was the same. She wouldn’t let him feed her. He couldn’t untie her.

Sometimes they sat in silence, Arya staring at him with malice. Sometimes she’d try to play the Game of Faces. Gendry gathered the point of the gruesome thing: tell a story and make it seem true; If the other person can tell that you’re lying, you lose – if you lose you get punished.

Every day she made up a new gruesome end for the fictional Arya. She’d been tortured at Harrenhal. She’d starved to death in the woods. She’d been found out by Tywin Lannister and hanged. She’d been sold as a slave by Sandor Clegane and killed for sport. Beaten. Murdered. Tortured. Burned alive. Each day it seemed a little more awful. Perhaps she was trying to see if ‘No One’ would break. Perhaps she wanted to see how Gendry felt. Either way he dreamed of what she described in the night and awoke in a cold sweat before dawn.  

On the eighth day or perhaps the ninth, after Jon and Sansa had allowed her out of the room to walk and keep her strength up, Arya changed tactics. She gave herself endings that only Arya would hate. She’d been taken to the Vale and then married off to some young lord. She’d travelled across the sea and fallen in love with a pirate. She’d become a princess of a faraway city. These grated on Gendry even more, and he left even earlier each day. He knew Arya could survive any torture, any fight, but what of the others? What if she had been married off or some shite? He couldn’t place the feeling of pain low in his gut – it burned.

Worst of all … his worst fear of all of them: what if she had become No one and this was some bastard in a mask come to take her place.

That day and into the evening he worked in the forge. No matter how hard he worked, Gendry couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling. Finally, when he nearly smashed his middle finger with the hammer, he went to bed.

He stayed up for a long while. He thought, “why in the Seven-Hells am I doing this?” He was nearly driving himself mad with it. Why not leave her and her family, leave Winterfell and get on with his life? Leave Arya to her madness.

That thought hurt him. He couldn’t leave her like this. She was … she was his friend. It would drive him to madness to think of … his friend like that. Unhappy. _Caged_.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Gendry took Arya her breakfast again. He’d hardly slept. He was sure he was acting like a spooked horse and he knew, if she pushed him the wrong way, he would lose it.

She spoke first and, to his surprise, asked how preparations for the war were going. The weapons. The training. She almost seemed to have a bit of feeling in her eyes, some longing, when he spoke about the training. Like she’d like to be out there with them – his Arya would.

Then her gaze hardened. She said, “But I can’t be training because I’m locked up in here. Because you’ve convinced my family that I’m mad.” This was the first time she had spoken plainly about her situation, expressed any discomfort. She displayed true feeling, even if that feeling was pissed.

He said, by way of response, “You can get out of here if you promise not to hurt me. Or anyone else. I swear Arya I’m not gonna hurt you. You’re safe at Winterfell.”

“Playing the Game again? I grow tired of it. I have passed and you have failed.”

Gendry nearly lost his cool at that. Again, she still thought they were playing that stupid lying game. “Arya I am not no one. I am not here to kill you. I swear it. I swear to all the damned gods even that many-faced bastard that I am Gendry Waters. I’m not dead nor have I ever been dead.”

He was losing his temper now and he started rambling, “The brotherhood without banners sold me off to that Red Priestess, Melisandre. She took me to Dragonstone to see Stannis. Then she tried to kill me! My own bloody uncle gave her permission. She tied me down to a gods-damned bed an’ tried to leech all the blood out of me! She tried to put a leech on my fucking dick!”

Something sparked in Arya’s eyes. Like she might laugh. Like she might know him to be Gendry and might laugh at a joke about pricks as she once had, just as dirty and bawdy as a two-and-ten year old could be. Then it was gone in a split second.

He continued: “Ser Davos – he’s working with Jon now –  he got me out and put me in a row boat to start rowing. I’d never been in a row boat in my life, but he told me to just keep going till I hit King’s Landing. I stayed there for six fuckin’ years while I waited for something to happen, all the while thinking you were dead.”

He grabbed her hand which was still strapped to the side of the bed.

“Arry for gods-sake I thought you were dead and I was kicking myself for not going after you when I heard you weren’t. I joined your brother Jon because I wanted something to do! I wanted to help your family! And I knew I could serve a bastard king. Arya you gotta believe me.”

He hadn’t been so emotional in a long while. Any man he knew would laugh at him if they could see him, practically begging on his knees for this slip of a thing to listen to him.

She almost seemed to believe it – something in her eyes softened ever so slightly.

 Then she shut down again, yanked her hand away as best she could with the leather straps and said, “An excellent story. I nearly believed it. Now I don’t know if my truth can top it.” She settled back into her pillow and began the same story as always. But this time she didn’t stop with the Hound or with her sea crossing.

 “I reached Braavos and I went to the House of House of Black and White – the temple of the Many-Faced God and the home of the Faceless Men. They would not take me at first. I stayed for a day and a night on the steps in the rain before they let me in.

“After a time, I trained to become No One. I failed the Game of Faces often, so I merely cleaned the bodies and swept the hall. A young girl came to the Hall one day who I convinced her to drink the poison water, by telling her a story. Her sickness was ended. I won the Game with her, so I was given a man to kill.

“Then I became an … oyster seller. I pawned my wares at the docks and was to kill a man. I failed. I was distracted by a man on my list: Meryn Trant. I followed him to a brothel. I stole a face from the hall and I sought to kill him. He had been asking for young girls to beat and rape. I was enraged. I ripped off my mask and tried to kill him, but, before I could, he recognized me. And then he killed me slowly.”

She went on to described what he’d done … Trant. The story was … Gendry couldn’t hold down his breakfast for much longer. Trant was the one who had killed Arya’s water-dancing teacher, and, according to her story, he had been more of a monster than a man.

Finally, Gendry couldn’t take it. The detail. The pain. The sick sensation in his stomach at the thought of Arya at the mercy of Meryn Trant.

“Stop! Stop!” He shouted, “By all the gods Arya stop! I know it’s not true. You’re right godsdamned here and I know it’s not fucking true.”

She stopped. She began to spin a new tale and this one was worse than the last. Arya made it to Braavos, but she was kidnapped and taken to Meereen. Arya had been a whore and then Arya had been a slave. And Arya had been nailed alive to a wooden stake where she died.

He stood and knocked over his chair at her bedside. He couldn’t take this anymore. Not this. Not the nightmares, the stories, the lies, the faces. Madness, this was madness. He had to get out of here.

But she said, “Wait.” She sounded almost like his Arya, her voice was warmer. He turned back around.

“I’ve got one more. Its’ not so bad. And maybe this time I’ll win.”

He said, “If I listen to this one, you have to trust me to at least give you some bread.” A look of fear crossed her face, in a flash, then it faded to that smug amusement.

“Alright then.”

He settled again in the chair. Arya told her story. About the House of Black and White. The faces. It was all the same. Until she failed her first test, because she had killed Meryn Trant. She also failed her second test for the Faceless Men. After that, in order that she not be punished, she ran away with a group of actors. Arya talked about the leading lady as if she had really known her.

“I stayed and played with them. I was very good. I had learned to be no one so now I could be someone else. I was still afraid. Then I met him.” Her face softened. Her tale became a love story. His stomach roiled though he didn’t know why. Her story came to its climax, she spoke about a featherbed and an inn and this man she supposedly loved. Her voice became a soft caress as she spoke, said all of the things … things she had wanted. With him. That man. Things he had wanted from her. Her story was like a dirty tavern wenches tale and it was coming to a close. And he could not stand to listen any longer. He walked out with all of the things she had said ringing in his ears. He lost the game.

 

* * *

 

He was gone. Again. She should be grateful, grateful that she chased off the Faceless Man once again. But she was starting to wonder … wonder if perhaps it really was Gendry. If he had indeed had a change of heart and decided to serve Jon – after all Jon was a bastard like Gendry, and Gendry probably could have stomached serving Jon. Maybe …

This was foolishness: Arya couldn’t let her musings distract her. If she was distracted she could be killed. Killed in more horrible, gruesome ways than she could imagine and then leave her family and all of their allies vulnerable. She sat up straighter in bed, determined to fight her exhaustion and continue planning. But she eased back down again, unable to keep from her thoughts. 

She also wondered why she had chosen the stories she was telling. Why she was spinning these specific tales about herself. At first, she had merely been picking plausible demises for herself, then … she found herself telling tales that only a friend would see as a terrible fate. Only Gendry or Hot Pie or Jon would know that she never wanted to rule, never wanted to be a lady, and certainly wouldn’t want to be or allow herself to be swept off her feet by a man with – ugh – romance.

In some deep-down part of her, she missed her friend she supposed. She missed the old Gendry, and the old Arya, too. She subconsciously wanted to test him, to see if maybe he was in there, even if she knew it to be folly. Nonsense and foolishness. She rolled over and settled again.

Besides, if Gendry was alive … oh, she would _kill_ him. If he had been alive all this time, and really was serving her brother – really had rejected her offer for family when she was most vulnerable and then turned around and accepted it from Jon along with a lordly title – she would murder him.

Arya huffed out a breath, sitting back up again – unable to get comfortable with her thoughts all in a jumble.

It was her last story that most confused her. Why she had stopped with the acting troupe, why she had talked of love, and why the false Gendry (or maybe the real Gendry) had stormed out. She never wanted all that; it sounded just about as horrid as being hanged. And yet … It was all too confusing, and she was so tired.

Once more, she settled back against the pillow. He wouldn’t be back today and she could finally get some rest. She _must_ get some rest before she was defenseless: exhaustion would make her loose focus and she hadn’t slept properly in days.

At last, by sheer determination, she settled into a deeper sleep than she usually did in the night – though Arya Stark never really slept deeply anymore.

* * *

 Gendry stopped at the smithy for his fur cloak then trekked into the godswood. He was going to be sick. He was going to kill somebody. He wanted to break every bone in his hand punching the outer walls of the keep.

He nearly did.

He smashed his hands into the nearest tree and felt his skin tear. Good. He needed that to feel something other than disgust. Feel something other than … than hate for that man. He stopped in front of the weirwood tree –the bleeding face seemed to be judging him. Why? Why in seven-hells was he feeling like this? How could she do this to him? Why ….

He stopped his train of thought. A story, like all her others. She had been telling a story. It was a lie … she hadn’t loved some Braavosi stranger, hadn’t ridden off into the sunset with some player. That wasn’t what Arya wanted. She would never want any of that, though she would make a damn good actor. She didn’t want any sort of sort of romantic tale.

 But that’s what he had hated. Why had he hated it … Jealousy. He knew this feeling. Knew the disgust just as the thought finally hit him. This was green envy. He’d known it before: He’d known it when it seemed Arya would never forgive him for some slight or another and transferred her friendship to Hot Pie – a silly childish envy. He’d known this protectiveness, when the other boys had talked about what they did to girls. He’d shielded Arya from that. He’d known this jealousy, when Thoros of Myr had talked about Arya – he’d said she was a pretty lass and Gendry had all but blown up. Now he was jealous of that made up prick in the story. And he was so gods-damned stupid. A stupid bull.

Gendry hadn’t even realized that he … he cared for Arya. Not like a friend. Not like his childhood friend at all. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he knew that this went deep. And she was … Arya was broken and he had to do something about it. There had to be something, something he could say or do to make her trust him. There had to be something to make her recognize him. So he could apologize and beg – beg her forgiveness on his hands and knees.

Because even if it hadn’t really been his choice, he had left her. He’d already decided to leave – leave and join the Brotherhood – even before he’d been sold. And even then, had he really fought that hard when Melisandre showed up? He hadn’t. He’d already been over it before, in his head. It had plagued him for a long time after he was back in Kings Landing. And after a time, when no rumor about Arya Stark had appeared, when word trickled down that all the Starks were killed at the Red Wedding, he made himself forget his guilt. No use in apologizing to a corpse.

But she wasn’t dead. She was alive and … overwhelmed with fear and hate. He wouldn’t let her fear, brought to the surface by the Faceless cunts, break her before he got the chance to ask Arya for her forgiveness.

What could he say to convince her? It had to be something that no one else knew … Aha! He had a thought, so he rushed out of the godswood and marched back towards that little room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is a bit of a short one and that it took so long: I've had too many papers to write for school and not enough time to spend on this. Sorry that Meryn Trant is gross. Thank you for reading and enjoy!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Now Arya Stark had no good reason to murder the stupid bull. Because he really was Gendry Waters – no Gendry fucking Baratheon – she couldn’t kill him. She couldn’t kill him, because he had saved her brother’s life with good intentions and was going to help with the war effort and was a godsdamned important, indispensable, prick of a lord from a fucking good house." ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, notes about continuity and accuracy: After finishing my most recent re-watch of the series, I have noticed some things in my fic that will vary from Season 7 (only the last few episodes). One, Thoros of Myr is dead - he died from frostbite in "Beyond the Wall." I will be keeping him alive because I love that drunk bastard. Two, Beric Dondarrion and Tormund Giantsbane are also, probably, dead from falling off the Wall in "The Dragon and the Wolf." I want them alive too. Three, Samwell Tarly made it to Winterfell in the final episode of the season, but, for dramatic effect, he will be arriving at a later date. Anyways, here it is and please enjoy!

Gendry pushed open Arya’s door and it hit the wall with a thud. Arya started. She musn’t have anticipated his return. Had she actually been sleeping? She must be so damn tired, to let her guard down, and because of him … never mind that.

He took a deep breath and began, barely registering his words before letting them spill, lest he lose his nerve.

“Arya, I’m done with this game. I’m done with the lies. I know you know who I am. I know that you know I am not No One. You’ve been picking things to say that would upset me. You’ve been playing me like a fool and I’m done with it. So you’re going to tell me the truth.”

Having gathered her composure while he was talking, Arya now appeared unruffled, her cool mask falling into place like it was second nature. She did not react, merely gesturing with her head for him to sit.

“Should I chose to believe you, cooperate with you, you’ll let me out of here?”

He replied, “Of course, you shouldn’t be caged like an animal. You should be training with the rest of us.”

“But if I’m wrong you’ll kill me.”

He looked to the heavens and asked the gods for more patience, having already been worn thin by their earlier interaction. “I won’t kill you.”

So, she told another story --the real story as far as he knew it. There were different details; about what she saw of the Red Wedding, for example. She’d seen them parade her brother’s body around with his direwolf’s head sewn onto his neck – Gendry’s stomach roiled.

She spoke in more detail about her time with the Hound. She described his fight with Brienne of Tarth, and, later, her choice to leave the Hound to rot. In Braavos much was the same. She had indeed failed her first task, but she specified the punishment for her failure: Arya had been _blinded_. Forced to beg on the streets for scraps, for coins, and tormented daily by a fellow acolyte.

The mummers were different too. Arya had been instructed to kill that lady actor and saved her life instead. So one of the Faceless ones had come for her. The wraith, as Arya called her, had tried to kill Arya – stabbed her in the gut and pushed her into the water of the canals. The actress healed Arya and she lived, barely. When the wraith found her again, she killed Lady Crane, Arya ran, and she was cornered in one of the dark catacombs that ran along the edge of the water. Arya’s tormenter was a skilled killer and the fight was nearly deadly. Arya, already injured, bleeding from her wounds that had torn open, only won because she fought the wraith in the dark; she’d succeeded only because her tormentor had not been used to being blind.

Arya put the wraith’s face in the Hall while it was still dripping blood. Then she’d come back to Westeros, killed a number on her list, and only turned north when she heard of Jon.

She stopped talking abruptly; there was no romantic or horrible or satisfying end to this tale. That was Arya’s conclusion and Gendry believed it all. Really believed it, especially because there was no ending – Arya’s story wasn’t finished yet.  

 “That is all true. I know it’s all true. You were clever to think to fight in the dark like that.”

Before, in another time, she might have looked smug – but she didn’t crack. He continued, “the Arya I knew lived by pure stubbornness and would have survived all that for sheer spite. She knew the world was kill or be killed but protected those who needed it. Arya wouldn’t have killed that lady player and since you are her, I know you to be you.”

Gendry knew his words didn’t make much sense, but he kept going. “I know who you are an’ I want you to know who I am. There’s got to be something I can say to make you trust me? Anything at all?” She didn’t answer, and he groped for a memory.

“How about how I knew you were Arya and not really Arry? You went off into the woods every day to take a piss by yourself because you didn’t want anybody knowing you were a girl. You thought you were so sneaky, but if anyone of those other men had half a brain they could’ve figured it out.” She didn’t look convinced.

“At Harrenhal, the first few weeks, we stayed together. They had us in giant cage. They took one person out, each day, to torture them and ask them questions none of us knew the answers to. The first day they killed a man … well, they had rats eat through him. You huddled up to me and nearly cried, which you didn’t ever do.  And in the night … when they would take the women away, me an’ Hot Pie would hide you behind us, just in case they figured it out.” She looked slightly shaken so he barreled on, hoping to crack that mask of calm and cool.

“After we … well after they put us to work – saved our sorry skins – you had Jaqen kill the Tickler … that was what they called him, the mad man responsible for the rats. You put him on your list and I’m sure you wished you could’ve killed him yourself. To get out of Harrenhal, after Tywin Lannister rode out to fight your brother … well it was really clever, you named Jaqen. Said he could either kill himself or kill the guards – more than the two debts you had left – so we could get away. And we walked out of Harrenhal, bloody Harrenhall because of you!” In remembering this, he felt as dumbfounded as he had on the day they’d escaped. She had been a child and had saved his stupid, teenage arse.

Arya was closing up again. He could hear the walls of ice re-freezing. So, he continued in detail – smaller details were better, the little things you could only know if you’d been there.

“I remember when we were with the brotherhood on the first night. They offered to give us some clean clothes – we stank for certain what with wandering in the woods and living at Harrenhal. Beric offered to find you a dress.” He paused and chuckled to himself.

“A dress. For you. And your tiny face was all scrunched up like – you were so damn angry … well, I started laughing so hard I nearly pissed m’self. Then Hot Pie was laughing … and then you. We hadn’t laughed in so long. Until then I wasn’t sure I remembered how to laugh.”

Her face softened. The ice melted a bit more.

“The next day we found a stream with them and you actually did wear the dress. You _had_ to wear the dress while we washed everything else.” Gendry’s face quirked with a smile, “I was washing my shirt and noticed a big rip in the back – probably tore it working. So, I asked if you could fix it – a fine lady like yourself must know a bit of needlework – and you pushed me into that balls-freezing stream and told me there was only one Needle you’d get familiar with.”

She stared at him, a question seemed to form on her lips. He pulled at his memories, something had to be good enough.

“Arya I know you … I know almost everything about you. When we first met you hadn’t the slightest clue how to tie your laces properly – on account of having ‘ad servants all your life. When you were small you used to sneak out at night and practice with a bow. When Jon found you, he joined you. You named your direwolf after Nymeria, the warrior-queen, because you love fantastic tales. You wanted to be Queen Nymeria – dragon rider and warrior – or even a knight. You think that lemons are disgusting even though your sister loves them. You used to put sheep shit in Sansa’s bed when you were mad at ‘er and you told her it was called sheep “shift” so you didn’ get in more trouble with your mum. You only believe in the god of death, when he calls you should say ‘not today.’ You can’t drink ale without choking and you hate being called m’lady!”

She kept looking at him warily. Finally she said, “tell me one thing. Name every person on my list. Every single one. And I’ll believe you.”

He began with ease. He could recite this in his damned sleep, since she’d said it so often. “Cersei Lannister. The Mountain. The Hound … Polliver. Joffery. That one gent who tried to hurt you in King’s Landing – you never learned his name. Illyn Payne. Tywin Lannister. Meryn Trant.”

 She looked unconvinced. He thought. Those were all he had known, but who had she added?

“Walder Frey – or maybe all the Frey’s. I assume you’re the one who killed ‘em?” She nodded, actually gave some sort of response so he kept going: “Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, and the Red Woman – you added them after she took me.”

“There’s one more.”

And he knew it in his gut. He knew it because she surely hated him, “Me. The last person on your list is me. Because I left you.”

She blinked. Then looked down at her hands. “I guess you are the stupid bull.”

He was going to go on, to say he was sorry but then she said, “Get out. I don’t want to see you again Gendry. I know it’s you and now I want you to get out.” He rose. After all this she finally knew.

“Gendry _Baratheon_ ,” she said with such malice he nearly winced, “I can’t kill you if you aren’t No One. Especially if you’re of use to my brother. But I want you to leave me alone. And tell someone to get me out of this damn bed.”

He walked out and slammed the door.

 

* * *

 

 

Arya knew and she was no longer afraid. She knew that he was not No One. And she hated him for it. Truly she had wanted him to be No One … so she could kill him.

Now Arya Stark had no good reason to murder the stupid bull. Because he really was Gendry Waters – no Gendry _fucking_ Baratheon – she couldn’t kill him. She couldn’t kill him, because he had saved her brother’s life with good intentions and was going to help with the war effort and was a godsdamned important, indispensable, prick of a lord from a fucking good house.

But she would make his life a living hell. As soon as she got out of this bed she would … no she wouldn’t. She would rather lurk in the shadows. No, that wasn’t right. This was her home. He should be lurking in the shadows, hiding from her. But he was too godsdamned stupid.

Whatever way, however she could, though, she would make sure she never had to lay eyes on him again. That stupid bull best stay out of her way – she would make it known to every person in command that if that traitorous ass didn’t stay out of her way, she would pummel him into the earth.

She’d tell Jon. And if Gendry didn’t listen, then it was his own godsdamned fault.

She fumed for hours. It was amazing the bed didn’t combust. Finally, Arya settled in on herself. She condensed her rage, bit by bit into a wall of thick ice that could never be melted. Each frozen block was made by a frostbitten memory. And she buried any hint of friendship or suggestion that he may have helped her – that memories of him and her family had brought her out of the darkness of the Faceless men – deep within the fortress of snow and hate within her mind.

Arya Stark locked the gates just as the clicking of Sansa’s heels rang in the hall.

She grinned. She would be free at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIIIIIIIVE! First and foremost, I would like to apologize for not updating for so long. To keep it short: school kicked my ass, rehearsal kicked my ass, exams kicked my ass, and now my summer internship is kicking my ass. The good news is that I have pretty much outlined the entirety of the story, and it will likely be around 30 or 35 chapters (no exact number yet). As I said I have an internship for the summer and I work long hours, but I will try, desperately try, to update either weekly or bi-weekly. As always thank you so much for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Gendry peered out farther over the rail and chuckled to himself. The Hound was standing opposite Arya and they appeared to be exchanging a flurry of insults. This fight would be a sight to behold._
> 
> _“I suppose I should let them have it out before we drag her inside,” Jon said, “not a good idea to cage a bloodthirsty wolf.”_
> 
> _Arya said something more to the Hound – something involving his “flea-bitten arse” – before striking._
> 
> _Gendry’s breath actually caught in his throat. She was magnificent._

Two weeks. Two weeks she had been out of commission. She was furious but didn’t even have time to reminisce on her anger as there was too much to be done. She had to regain her strength, train. Then she had to train others – men and boys and ladies brought to Winterfell by the lords of the north. So few of them knew how to hold a weapon, much less how to kill an undead creature. To be fair, she had little experience in such things either, but Jon was spread too thin to worry about training those without a hint of skill.

Then there were the meetings. Winterfell had walls to rebuild, they had a war camp to run, any army’s worth of dragonglass weapons to forge, and Jon and Bran each had their “news” which was being withheld until the Queen’s armies got settled. Apparently, there was much to discuss which had not yet come forth and for a number of reasons.

For one, they did have an entire army to feed and supplies were scarce in the winter. Two, there were much more pressing concerns such as weapons and warmer clothes – the Dothraki warriors, the Unsullied, and the remaining Second Sons, however impressive, did not come prepared with thick furs needed in the harsh climate and much of their time had been spent hunting in the woods for pelts. And third, Jon had wanted Arya to be a part of the preparations. He had not said it, but her temporary … absence had been a disruption to his plan – he also seemed to be putting off whatever news he had to share. Arya knew it must be grave.

Her first three days out of confinement passed without incident – meaning she did not come across Gendry fucking Baratheon. Thank the gods the camp was enormous.

Arya started her days early by training alone, then a little competition with Brienne. By mid-morning she assisted Brienne, Podrick, and a few others in training the newest of the recruits – the results of which were disappointing and very, very disheartening.

Her afternoons lifted her spirits as she sparred with the Dothraki men. She’d heard tales of the speed, the brutality, their effectiveness as warriors but … they were magnificent. She was nearly matched. On horseback she was pulverized. They wrecked her at archery too. And Arya loved every minute of it; it was another challenge for her to face and one which she intended to overcome quickly.

In the evenings she met with the lords and other uppity people to talk strategy – or rather argue about strategy. The bull was nowhere to be found – working in the forges no doubt – but she almost felt a pang. Her old friend would have hated war councils and it almost made her see him as Gendry again. But he was not. Gendry Waters was dead, and Gendry Baratheon was no friend of hers.

After the first meeting Jon had cornered her and tried to ask what happened. Concisely. With the brutal efficiency and honesty, she had always appreciated. As happy as she was to see him, as happy as she was that he remained in many ways unchanged – no nonsense – she did not reveal anything other than her request that Gendry stay away from her.

Jon seemed pained by this, or perhaps by her secrecy, but obliged nonetheless. Understanding seemed to flare in his eyes and she had to stop herself from leaping into his arms for a hug. Of course, even after all this time, Jon understood her.

On the fourth day since being allowed out of her room. Arya found a surprise waiting for her in the training ring after her solitary exercises.

She grinned at the Hound and the Hound smiled back.

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t seen her in three days. It had been three days since he’d gotten through to her … and been shut out of her life forever. Gods he was stupid. This was Arya fucking Stark and she was without a doubt the most pig-headed girl in Westeros. Perhaps in the entire world – though, on second thought, the Dragon Queen could likely match her for temper and for stubbornness. Arya Stark and Daenerys Targaryen were two sides of the same coin – ice and fire – both deadly and, he had to admit, beautiful.

For she was beautiful: Arya. And that was unnerving for a number of reasons. In the days since he realized that jealousy was pooling in his gut he’d also realized that she had grown up to be stunning – in a deadly sort of way. Like the view from the wall and the frozen landscape of the north she was beautiful, powerful, cold, and, most importantly, dangerous.

So here he was. Three days in to the greatest torture he could imagine: his newly-resurrected best friend hating his guts and thus leaving him to sneak around Winterfell while also avoiding responsibilities such as war council meetings and talking about his possibly-to-be-claimed title with Jon.

These three days he had been lucky. He rose at dawn and worked in the smithy all day and went to bed late without being sought out by Jon or seen by Arya.

Today, his luck ran out before noon. Jon – who Gendry had decided to merely call Jon in his mind, since the title and bending-the-knee business wasn’t yet sorted – opened the armory door and had let in a bit of snow before Gendry noticed and stopped his work.

When he stopped hammering, Wren, the elder smith, bowed low and apologized profusely to “His Grace” who merely looked pained at the formality. Gendry murmured a greeting and bowed as well. Though he knew Jon hated it, Wren was a traditional sort of gentleman who did not take respect as a small matter. Since Wren was the only other fully trained blacksmith around – until the others arrived from holdfasts loyal to the north – Gendry felt he should keep him on his good side.

Jon stepped forward and inspected the blade Gendry was working: a good, solid broadsword heavy enough to cut a man in half. Jon nodded his approval and said, “as much as I hate to take you away from this, I need you for the … council.”  Jon said “council” in a way that suggested Gendry’s current task of making weapons was far more productive and important than _council_ meetings in his eyes, but he continued, “Get ya’self cleaned up a bit and come with me to the tower. Nothing fancy, just wipe the sweat off your brow or Sansa’ll have a fit.”

Gendry did as commanded and quickly wiped his face and neck clean with a rag – not wanting Lady Sansa to have a “fit” – before throwing on a shirt, tunic, and cloak, buckling on his belt and sword, and running a hand through his sweaty hair.

They stepped out into the snow and Gendry wished he’d convinced Jon to let him stay by the forge. Not for the cold, though it was so, _fucking_ , cold, but because of what Jon said next.

“She’ll be there ya know. An’ I expect you both to be on best behavior. There’s too much going on … too much news to share for … well whatever you call this.”

Gendry’s face heated. “I don’ plan on causin’ any trouble m’lord. I’ve been trying to let her sort it out herself – cool off.”

Jon chuckled darkly, “She doesn’t need to cool off. She’s already as cold as ice. What she needs is some warmth, some laughter. Something to remind her that there’s more to her lot than killing and training.”

“Has she been training Jon … er … m’lord.”

“You can call me Jon, ya know. You saved my frostbitten arse out there and you know I never cared for the titles anyways. But, yes, she has been training. Perhaps even too much. The only time I can drag her away from the ring or the warriors or the recruits is for these meetings. Not that she’s much help. I’m sure ya know how she is about talk.”

Gendry knew. She likely hated the blather as much as he did. Jon turned slightly to look at him, giving him the side-eye, “Actually I’d like to hear how you know her so well. I’ve never heard the story, didn’t even know you knew my sister at all … ‘ntil she tried to kill you.”

Gendry’s face grew hot again, “I thought she was dead. You thought she was dead. Didn’ see the point in bringing up that pain.”

Jon looked somber “Aye. I did think she was dead. And in a way … this person who she is now is not my little sister. She’s completely different. But I suppose she was already changed from when I knew her to when you met her.”

They walked in silence for a moment before Jon said, “Gendry … we need to tell them about your father. You don’t need to accept Lordship or anythin’ and you don’t need to make any moves yet but … but I want them to know that I consider you an important ally. Even if you don’t take up the title, you belong in the room.”

Gendry’s stomach knotted. This meeting was going to be a nightmare. He remembered when they had told the Dragon Queen; it hadn’t been pretty:

 

_Lord Tyrion said, “Who’s your father, Gendry? Where are you from? No disrespect, but … I must say you look rather familiar.”_

_Gendry cleared his throat. He looked at Jon. Jon looked pained. Then he looked to Ser Davos for some reassurance. Ser Davos only looked queasy. This could go very poorly, very fast. Gendry looked to his lap, gathered his courage, and said, “my father … my father was Robert Baratheon. I grew up in Kings Landing, in Flea Bottom and then on the Street of Steel.”_

_Ser Jorah recoiled. The Queen’s eyes widened, and so did Lord Tyrion’s. He spoke again, “May I inquire … Ser Gendry how you managed to escape my sister’s … well her culling of Robert’s bastards? You are one of Robert’s bastards no doubt, you are his spitting image, but how did you get out of King’s Landing? Or better yet, how did you end up with a trade and a title?”_

_“Jon Arryn … the Hand of the King was always checking up on us. Someone kept a record I suppose. When my mother died some odd little bald man came an’ brought me to the Street of Steel and paid for my apprenticeship.”_

_Lord Tyrion nodded, “Lord Varys.”_

_“Yes –him. The kids called ‘im the Spider. So, I had that apprenticeship then … Jon Arryn came asking questions. Then Ned Stark, also came around – right before he died actually.”_

_Lord Tyrion looked warily to Jon before speaking again, choosing his words wisely, “Lord Stark was asking questions that should not have been asked. For honor’s sake I supposed he wanted a legitimate heir –”_

_“None of the sons of the usurper would be legitimate heirs,” the Queen said, with great malice in her voice, but still quiet._

_“He wanted a true son of Robert to follow … Jon Arryn likely did as well. And someone put the pieces together that a man with black hair and blue eyes, who only had bastards with black hair and blue eyes, couldn’t have sired Joffrey, Myrcella, or Tommen.”_

_“Yes. I think so,” Gendry concluded. This was also, probably, the reason the Queen had all of Robert’s other children killed – why the Gold Cloaks had been sent after him. “Anyways, when Ned Stark died and they started looking for us, my Master let me go. Sold me off to the Night’s Watch basically. I got away and … now I’m here. And I don’t actually have a title.”_

_The Dragon Queen spoke at last, “So you mean to tell me that you are the illegitimate son of Robert Baratheon – who usurped the throne. You just so happen to appear after the Baratheons are all dead … what is your intention? Do you plan to ask for a title? Do you wish to be legitimized and to add another claim to the throne of Westeros? Just what are you doing here?”_

_The Queen was on fire, she was roasting Gendry in his seat. Her eyes were living flame and as she spoke they grew. “What do you want_ Gendry _and what are you doing at my table!”_

_Gendry backpedaled, “No, no. I don’ want any title. I don’ want anything to do with my father or the throne. I just want to serve.”_

_She didn’t back down. “You mean to tell me that you have no intention toward greatness. No desire for title? As the only possible heir of a great house –”_

_“I’m sure I’m not the only possible heir, Yer Grace. My father was no eunuch.”_

_Her eyes blazed, but Jon interrupted, “Gendry came to me with the intention to serve – to do something useful as he put it. He wants to see Cersei Lannister brought low as much as we and he saved my life over the wall.”_

_Gendry spoke up again, “I want that … I want_ her _done for, for good. I want to help. I want to make a difference. And I want nothing to do with my father.”_

_The Queen had calmed at Jon’s words, but still raised her eyebrows, “You don’t want a title?”_

_“If it means I have to leave this fine banquet I’ll take one,” he joked, which was probably not the brightest choice. But the Queen relaxed and the tension at the table seemed to disappear._

_“I suppose if you have no interest in the throne, some title could be spared … Ser Gendry, if you’ll take it. And since you saved Jon’s life” her gaze melted, “you’ll be welcome here.”_

 

Jon said, in an attempt to alleviate some unease, “it’ll go much smoother this time. The Northern Lords will likely be more interested how your lineage gives you some battle skill. The Baratheon’s have long been our allies.”

“Its not them I’m worried about m’lord.” That was a lie – he was very worried about the lords – but he was more worried about Arya; for he had accepted the title of Ser, and, even if it was more honorary than anything, it was something he’d vowed never to do. Instead he said, “I won’ be accepting anythin’ big. Not for a while. Maybe not ever.”

He stopped in his step, just a moment. He considered turning around, turning his back on those Lords and that responsibility. On her wrath. Instead he continued, “but … I’ll join you. An’ I think it’s a good move.”

Now it was Jon’s turn to look queasy as he said, “I’ve also got to tell them about my choice – my decision to bend the knee to Daenerys. My sister has given me an ultimatum: I’ve got to tell them today, or she will.”

“She would do that?” Gendry said with confusion.

“Aye. Not for spite. But because it’s the right move. Sansa is smart. She knows it’s got to be done. She knows that lies are a better way to lose support than even my decision.”

“Well … this is going to be a real pain in the arse innit?”

Jon snorted, “certainly.”

Now they were walking along the balcony near the courtyard which was functioning as a sparring ring. Jon turned to look out and stopped. Gendry also looked over the rail and felt queasy all over again. There she was. Needle in hand and looking like she was going to kick some poor soul’s arse. Jon said, “She looks like she could kill with just a look.”

Gendry peered out farther over the rail and chuckled to himself. The Hound was standing opposite Arya and they appeared to be exchanging a flurry of insults. This fight would be a sight to behold.

“I suppose I should let them have it out before we drag her inside,” Jon said, “not a good idea to cage a bloodthirsty wolf.”

Arya said something more to the Hound – something involving his “flea-bitten arse” – before striking.

Gendry’s breath actually caught in his throat. She was magnificent. In a second, she’d already given the Hound a good nick on his left shoulder and he was growling with rage. She laughed and quipped that he was getting slow in his old age. He lunged. She ducked. He thrust his shield arm toward her and she rolled away. He jabbed his longsword out and she parried before tripping him. He stumbled and nearly fell but turned to throw his weight into another swing.

Swing and lash. Rush of wind and laughter. On and on it went. The Hound was soon exhausted from chasing after her small frame and thoroughly incensed by the number of cuts his unguarded shoulders and knees bore. Finally, he made his grave mistake: he dropped his shield and attempted to grab her, but she latched onto his arm and used his momentum to swing him into the dirt face down. He rolled to stand but Needle was already pointed over his exposed throat. That fast she had defeated the Hound.

Gendry was concerned for a moment that he might resort to foul play, or that she would actually slit the man’s throat. But instead she extended a hand and helped the hulking brute up, not even grunting with his weight.

Jon began to clap, and though Gendry hated that her attention be drawn their way, he was inclined to clap too.

Jon said, with pride in his voice, “good job, sister. I knew you’d pick up something useful someday.” She scowled up at him – but it was surprisingly warm, like the wrinkled face she used to make when she wanted laugh but pretended to be displeased.

“I’ll have you know I’ve always wanted to do something useful. Isn’t my fault you only gave me this,” she gestured with Needle, “when we had to leave.”

The Hound spoke from his perch on a barrel, apparently having just caught his breath, “your talents with that flimsy fire poker won’t do you much good against the dead, girl. Nor will all ya bobbing and weaving.”

Jon’s face grew solemn, “he’s right Arya. You aught to be training with a broadsword. As much as Needle is a fine piece of work, it won’t cut bone.”

Gendry figured she would roll her eyes, as she usually did at sage counsel, but instead she replied, “I’ll start training with something more sturdy tomorrow,” and grabbed her cloak from its resting place on a pole. She barreled up the steps and said, “I assume we’re headed to the meeting?”

Jon nodded.

“Well best get it over with. I can’t stomach their grumbling at dinner.” Then she turned on her heel and walked away, without even acknowledging Gendry.

But Gendry didn’t particularly care. He’d been forming an idea in his head – a peace offering that might just get her attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter, new chapter! As always thank you for following along and for your comments; love the analysis and I could write pages and pages on these characters. Again, apologies for irregular updates due to a super crazy work/internship schedule and other fun stuff. Having a bit of writer's block with the next few chapters but I'm gonna figure it out. So, all in all, thanks for reading, I love my murder child, and writing is hard!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Actually, Ser Davos needn’t be corrected. M’ Lords,” he paused, a deep breath, “and Ladies. I’ve made a decision which you may not … I’ve made a decision for the sake of the North and for the sake of our lives.”_
> 
> _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._
> 
> _“A fortnight ago I bent the knee to Queen Daenerys. She is your Queen and I am now your Lord only.”_
> 
> _Arya drew Needle as all hell broke loose. ___

Though sparring with the Hound had brought a great deal of joy to her morning, Arya was not pleased to be called to another meeting. Another council, more arguing, more of the same fears and politics, and titles and bull.

And worse, speaking of bulls, Lord kiss-arse was joining them this evening. She prayed to the  gods that he kept his mouth shut: she couldn’t stand it if he had become a politician as well as a magnificent boot-licker.

She walked ahead of Lord Idiot and Jon, trying to keep ahead so she didn’t have to acknowledge his presence. Yes, it was petty. Yes, it was remarkably unprofessional and childish. And, yes, she should’ve tried to present some “unified front” of support for Jon or whatever Sansa had said at dinner last night – but she was too angry.

Quite frankly, Arya wasn’t entirely sure why she was angry. Or why she kept reacting so strongly. She should be able to bury her emotions – keep cool and under control – but the storm kept raging.

She arrived at the door and stopped short. She’d wait for Jon, to show whatever support Sansa insisted upon. Sansa was right in this matter: these people judged every move, every step, and every word. Lord Tyrion was an entire court of intrigue all on his own; though, Arya had to admit, he was significantly less conniving than the average Lannister – even if he was still ten times more dishonest and snake-like than the men she’d grown up with.

Jon came up the stairs with Lord Baratheon trailing behind him. Jon gave her a look that said ‘play nice now’ before stepping up to the door and walking in. Arya nearly snorted – his look had been so similar to those which her septa used to give – but she schooled her face as she walked into the room.

They had been holding meetings in this space for two weeks. Arya could never remember using this room with her family – she hadn’t even known it was here. Sansa said that it hadn’t been used since the days of the last King in the North – not Robb, but Torrehn Stark. It had hosted his war councils during the fight against the Targaryen conquerors.

The large room took up the entire top level of one of Winterfell’s shorter towers. The fireplace and grand, rounded table had already been in place when Sansa had ordered it opened, but the chairs, maps, and smaller serving tables had to be brought up from a different floor. The serving tables had been an afterthought, as Sansa remembered that Lord Tyrion rarely worked without wine. But it had been relatively unnecessary. Lord Tyrion, surprisingly, had slowed his drinking habits while in service to the Dragon Queen – a great surprise to Sansa and Jon. The tables had only been used when meetings ran past meal time which thankfully had only happened twice. As Arya had said to Jon, she hated when the councils ran into or past dinner.

All the attendants’ seating had been carefully planned and negotiated by Sansa: Bran was seated nearest the fireplace, pulled up to the table in his wheeled-chair. Beside him, to the left, were four open places – for Jon, Arya, Lord Bull, and Ser Davos she supposed. To Bran’s right sat Sansa, Brienne, and her squire, Podrick. Following them to the right were Lord Tyrion; the Dragon Queen; her advisor, Missandei; her general, Grey Worm, and Ser Jorah Mormont. Next to the four empty chairs was seated Jon’s man, Tormund; Beric Dondarrion, and the Northern folk: Lord Tallhart, Lord Hornwood, Lord Manderly, Lady Karstark, Lord Cerwyn, the young Lady Mormont and Lord Umber, and a few others. Lady Mormont was seated next to her uncle Jorah, who, according to Sansa, she had never met up until two weeks ago. Both had thought their house nearly extinct and they had taken to each other as only long-lost family can. Arya was quite fond of the young Lady, who frequently and loudly made her opinions known – she was also one of Jon’s fiercest supporters.

John sat nearest to Bran and Arya followed. Ser Davos moved to sit next to her, but Sansa inclined her head ever so slightly and he moved one seat to the left. Arya snapped her head to her. Sansa’s eyebrows rose as if to say “you want to make a scene here? Make a scene. I dare you” so Arya schooled her face into neutrality as the Bull sat next to her. In all fairness, he looked equally as uncomfortable in the positioning. But this had been Sansa’s careful maneuver: she wanted to show that all was well, to erase all memory of their … scuffle, and she likely wanted them to get along for real. That wasn’t going to happen, no matter Sansa’s manipulating.

Sansa had already moved on from their silent conversation and stood to speak.

“Thank you all for joining us here today. We’ve got plenty to discuss but first some introductions.” Sansa gestured across the table, “Lord Tallhart arrived last night from Torrehn’s Square.” The lord in question bowed his head and mumbled a short, “thank you, m’lady.”

The Queen questioned, imperious and not concerned for niceties in the slightest, “what have you brought us Lord Tallhart?”

To his credit he did not flinch under her gaze. He only straightened his shoulders and said, “House Tallhart is small but I’ve brought up a sizeable force. And our Master Stone mason for the fortifications.”

Jon spoke, “Thank you, Lord Tallhart. Your men are much appreciated.”

Arya turned her head, just a bit, to look at him and questioned silently, “since when are you the master of negotiations?”

His gaze flicked to hers and that was enough answer. Jon was being smooth because the Queen was … quite rough around the edges.

Arya noticed that the Queen was actually quite moody today. She suspected that it had something to do with her … relationship with Jon. Arya wasn’t entirely sure what they had going on, but it was certainly more than a political alliance. Her eyes met his far too often, and the look she gave him was far too soft.

Sansa was also looking at Jon with intent. Hers clearly meant “take over the damned meeting” so Jon rose instead and cleared his throat.

“I’ve also got an introduction to make, I suppose. Ser Gendry,” he gestured to the Bull, “joined us on the mission at the Wall. He’ll be overseeing a lot o’ work in the forges.” Jon took a pause, gathering his words for the explanation to come but Lord Cerwyn interrupted.

“Ser Gendry? You’ve started knighting men?”

The Queen replied “The title is more of an honorific. Ser Gendry is an excellent smith and will head the forging of the Dragonglass weapons when the instructions arrive.” Arya was a little surprised at that, she had thought that he had taken the title of Lord – been legitimized by either the Queen or Jon. Now she realized how stupid an assumption that had been.

Lord Hornwood spoke next, “thas’ all very good Yer Grace. But may I ask what House you hail from, lad?”

“I have no house to my name. But … my father was Robert Baratheon.”

Murmurs went around the table. Lord Royce said, “I don’t doubt you. You look just like King Robert did when he was younger, by all accounts. But what are you going to do? You’re one of the last living Baratheons?”

“I have no intentions toward the lordship. In truth I wan’ nothing to do with my father. I don’ want to be anything like him if I can help it.” Arya started just a bit at this. He sounded so much like he used to and she warmed just the slightest bit.

He continued, “I’m here to serve an’ do whas’ right. Better than hiding out in the South anyways.” Ugh, how noble. Of course he had to be a _good person_ in addition to saving Jon’s life. Her childish disgust grew even as she warmed: she hadn’t really believed in honorable men since her father died. And Gendry might just be one – and that was intolerable for a number of reasons.

Lady Mormont spoke next, “you may not want to be like your father, but can you fight like him? King Robert was legend.”

“I’d like t’ think I can.” Arya nearly snorted at that. She’d had him on the ground in five seconds flat. Of course it had been an ambush … maybe if she could stomach seeing him for a bit, she’d really test him out.

Lyanna grinned, “Then welcome Ser Gendry. A bit of Baratheon steel never hurt any northerner.” The table quieted once again. The leader had spoken and Arya wished she could capture the feeling forever - of watching a girl of two-and-ten order about the Lords of the North.

The Queen spoke, and her face was as welcoming as Arya had ever seen it, “Your wisdom is unparalleled Lady Mormont. Though Ser Gendry will be serving us both well.”

The young Lady blushed, and Arya got the feeling that this was the Dragon Queen’s highest praise. The woman had a soft spot for other ladies … and that made her grow on Arya just a bit. Women should always stick together.

Daenerys spoke again “Are there any prevailing announcements my lords? Jo- _we_ have much to discuss.”

Had Arya been standing, she may have needed to sit down. She hoped surprise didn’t show on her face. The Queen had nearly called Jon … Jon! In front of all these noble people, she’d neglected the title. As Arya suspected, her brother and her the Queen were far closer than she had guessed. Yes, Daenerys  and Jon certainly had something going on, thought Arya hoped Jon wasn’t stupid enough to be sleeping with her.

Lord Mazin began to rattle off some numbers and dates. The expected batch of skilled workers coming from the west, and some stores being sent over from his stronghold.

Jon began to question and as Daenerys sat she looked at him with great intent. When he finished she also questioned … and he looked at her like she held the moon in her hands. Shit – he was definitely sleeping with her. Gods damn men and their pricks. Arya would kill him for this – well not kill him but they would certainly have a good talking to.

The Queen was their _ally_ , not a friend and certainly not a lover. Had Jon not learned from Robb? If Robb hadn’t married for love, had her father not loved and been a friend King Robert, had Robb not trusted and loved Theon … the rest of her family might be alive. There was little place for love in this kingdom. Only love between family survived – and even that was like treading on black ice.

But Arya also supposed that she had made similar mistakes. Gendry … wait. This was not the same. Gendry had been her friend. Her Friend. He’d betrayed her and though it hurt, childhood friendships did not yield love – not familial love and certainly not love-love. Ugh. And besides, that was over. He was now her ally. She should treat him like an ally as Jon should be treating the Queen – but that also meant that she had to stop being an ass to him …

Sansa, ever the Lady, had moved the conversation to a new topic. All the lords fell into their usual pattern of bickering and Arya relaxed just a bit for the normalcy of it all. They discussed weapons, numbers, food, and positions. They bickered about tactics with the Queen’s general. Occasionally Lord Beric or Tormund would add some comment about the dead. Brienne never spoke, though, occasionally, Podrick would speak to Lord Tyrion. Of course, they knew each other. Because Westeros was so damned small. Seemed like such a small world one could almost believe in fate.

The sun waned, and conversation began to lull. Arya was nearly asleep at the table when Gendry’s stomach grumbled loud enough to jolt her awake – and she almost laughed at the sheepish look he gave Jon.

Jon looked to Daenerys, then Sansa very seriously. Then he looked to Ser Davos, but Arya could not read what was going on. And her confusion only grew. They let the conversation keep going, until Ser Davos made a comment: “I think Lord Snow is right. The western battlements should be just as well fortified as the north. The dead don’ make battle plans like mortals, I’m sure.”

Lord Flint said, “Ser Davos, you’re right in your sentiments but you would do well to remember your King’s proper title.”

Jon stood, and Arya began to panic inside. His face was grim and warning bells flashed – what had he been hiding?

“Actually, Ser Davos needn’t be corrected. M’ Lords,” he paused, a deep breath, “and Ladies. I’ve made a decision which you may not … I’ve made a decision for the sake of the North and for the sake of our lives.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“A fortnight ago I bent the knee to Queen Daenerys. She is your Queen and I am now your Lord only.”

Arya drew Needle as all hell broke loose.

 

* * *

 

Gendry stood just as the news dropped. Arya drew Needle … just as Lord Flint drew his own longsword. The shouting began.

Accusations flew. Arya looked as though she couldn’t decide if she was rising to come to Jon’s defense or to slice him down the middle – well not slice him but certainly give him a good arse-kicking. She whispered to him and couldn’t be heard above the roar.

One of the Northern folk, Lord Manderly? spoke above all the others, “We pledged our swords to you! You’re the damned king in the North! I didn’t bring my remaining family up here to serve some foreign brat! Not after losing my son!”

Jon bellowed back, “You’ll do well to remember Lord Manderly that it was my decision t’ make. I was your King and I am still your Lord. We need this alliance!”

“You’d also do well to remember that I am not foreign. I am the last Targaryen, the true heir to the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms,” the Queen said.

Lord Cerwyn spat, “I don’ care about your claim, your throne, or your kingdoms. Keep all six, but I’ll be looking out for my own. An’ that man there,” he pointed to Jon, accusatory, “promised to give me my freedom and to protect my people. Our people. What promise have you made to us? What good can you, raised in foreign lands and only interested in King’s Landing, do for the North?”

“My children are all the protection you’ll ever need.”

“Those beasties haven’t done nothing but crumble towers and spook my horses. Demons, nightmares made flesh. Whose t’ say you won’t just turn around and set fire t’ every holdfast in the north? Melt stone as your ancestors did? Fry us all, wives and children, in our beds?”

The other lords murmured their agreement.

Jon said, “Queen Daenerys has made promise t’ defend us from the White Walkers. Certain death awaits us without ‘er.”

Cerwyn spoke again, “You show me one reason t’ trust ‘er. You give me one good reason t’ trust a Targaryen and her pets … and maybe I won’ take my men and march home. Better t’ defend my own or die in my own bed than serve this honour-less who-”

“You’ll hold your tongue Lord Cerwyn!” Lord Tyrion said.

“Hold my tongue? I’ll show you, Lannister Imp –”

But before Lord Cerwyn could finish his threat, the door banged open. A breathless messenger stepped into the room: “My Lords, Yer Grace.”

Jon spoke first, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Wights. Three leagues. Small force, but …” the man’s face was ashen in spite of his climb, “they’ve got these bears. They’re enormous creatures. White and seem to be made of ice – bigger than anythin’ I’ve e’er seen. All of ‘em are carryin’ huge spears.” Spears like the one the White Walker had used to kill one of the Queen’s dragons: Viserion.

Shit.  

“Is the rest of the army to follow?” Lord Tyrion said.

“No m’lord. Just the bears an’ their riders.”

Jon grew frustrated, “Why the hell are they here then?”

Bran jolted suddenly from his spot by the fire. He had not said a word through the entire meeting but spoke softly now, “They are scouts. He can see through their eyes. Even if we kill them … they must not reach the walls of Winterfell. They have already seen too much.”

Jon’s face was white. The wheels in his mind seemed to turn so fast, his head might very well blow.

Lord Cerwyn spoke again, “Well, my Queen, here’s yer chance.” He turned to her with malice, “You ride your lovely little children into battle, kill those beasts before they kill my men, and I migh’ consider staying for the end.”

The Queen merely nodded her head. Lord Tyrion looked as though he would protest, but she silenced him with a look. She looked to Jon, and he nodded in confirmation. This was the way.

Gendry looked to Arya, who appeared prepared to fight the damned bears all on her own. She glanced his way and he saw her fury – she hadn’t known that Jon had bent the knee.

Gendry decided he’d best get started on that present right away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Finally got past my writer's block and I'm already chugging on through the next three chapters! Of course that presents a whole new host of problems, specifically, more research about earlier events that I can't remember from my last re-watch of the series, and writing in dialect. With other things I've written for school I never have trouble writing in dialect - especially if I can do the accent myself. Even Gendry's voice/accent, which I can't do, is easy. But my real trouble is Jon: I have trouble hearing his voice in my head. I've watched videos on the Northern English accent, watched episodes, etc. and I'm still having difficulty. If anyone has any tips I'd love to hear them! As always, thank you for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Arya was just reaching out, tentatively and slowly, when she heard Lord Cerwyn’s grating words and the silence that followed. So, she abandoned her mission – promising herself later, later she would get close – to come to the Queen’s defense. Because if Daenerys was her Queen, then no one would speak to her Queen like that._

There weren’t enough curses in the world to express how pissed off she was.

Jon had bent the knee. He’d bent the fucking knee. After all they had suffered at the hands of other rulers. After everything Sansa had gone through to get back here. After father, mother, Robb, and Rickon –

Perhaps worse still he hadn’t told her. Jon was the one person she could trust. She would never share her secrets – he didn’t have to share his – but this. This wasn’t about feelings or secrets or deep desires of the heart. This was about her home. His home.

Everyone was rushing from the room. The Queen – ugh, _her_ fucking Queen now – was walking swiftly through the door with Jon and Lord Tyrion at her heels. Chairs scraped, and weapons clanged as the others piled out, but no one said a word. Arya cursed those undead bears for interrupting the thorough tongue-lashing she’d been about to give Jon.

Arya rushed ahead of the crowd, slipping between bodies and dashing down the tower stairs. She took the steps two at a time: gods-be-damned if she didn’t catch her brother before he went and did something stupid or noble.

Her thoughts roiled as she ran. Jon had given up their security. All they had in the world was Winterfell. All these lords had was the North. And each other. Of all the lessons these years had taught them, and Jon had not learned one of the most important: Northerners stick together, family stays together. Fuck his noble reasons and the dragons and his stupid, stupid cock!

That was the worst of all: even if he spoke true about saving them from doom, on some level, Jon had bent the knee because he was a man and couldn’t help thinking with his dick.

Arya dashed across the courtyard bridge and spotted the Queen and her trailing advisors. They all jogged to keep up with her quick pace – Lord Tyrion actually gave up and was standing at the door to the armory with – ha! There Jon was … buckling on breastplate. Well fuck.

She leaped down the stairs – might not have even touched the banister – and ran. She crossed the yard and heard Lord Tyrion arguing as Jon walked under the first archway: “You don’t need to go. Neither of you do! We can meet them in the field. The riders –”

“The riders don’ know what they’re up against yet. And we can’t let them get that far. Besides do you want her t’ go alone?”

“No, but –”

“But nothing. Do you think anyone else here is going t’be able to ride Rhaegal?”

Rhaegal. Arya’s very bones chilled. Her brother was going to try to ride a dragon?! They were barely past feral. Even Nymeria had been less of a threat when Arya had met her in the woods.

She reached them as Jon crossed the outer gate, now pulling on his gloves. The Queen was already astride the big dragon – Drogon – while the littler one waited beside.

In any other moment Arya might have admired them. In any other situation she might have asked to get close, to look the great beast in the eye. They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen in her lifetime. And to ride them … but now the thought of Jon climbing on to the back of one had her lunging for his arm.

She stopped him, yanking him back, “What are you doing?”

“I’m going t’ help Arya. She can’t go undefended.”

“Undefended? Do you see the dragons?”

“And the last time we encountered wights one of them died – died for my sake and I won’ let that happen again.”

Jon finally turned to her. The look on his face … Arya knew it well. It was the look they’d often shared, ages ago when things were so much simpler. The look Jon gave her when he decided that he would take the blame for the shattered arrows found in the courtyard on early mornings. Or for the pies and cakes went missing from the kitchen and the crumbs found littering the hall outside her door. Or for the horses that magically appeared in the Godswood – that look multiplied by a thousand. Meaning that he was serious, that he would take the blow, because he was so gods-damned self-sacrificing.

She held his stare for just a moment, asking as she always had, if he was sure. His jaw tightened, and she knew the answer. And because … because that was Jon – doing the right thing was so integral to who he was – she let his hand go.

“You come back so I can wallop your arse. For not telling me.”

“I will. And you can tell me about Gendry.”

Arya went to protest – there was nothing to tell! But Jon was off. He stalked up to Rheagal and the magnificent beast lowered a shoulder, somehow understanding Jon’s intention.

The queen shifted on her mount, looking to Jon in silent question. Arya could scarcely make out his nod, his figure was dwarfed by the mass of the dragon. The Queen shouted – a single word carried away by the howling winter winds – and the dragons took to the skies. The beating of their wings blew flurries of snow into her eyes, but Arya stayed.

She stayed even as the night grew cold.

 

* * *

 

Gendry woke to the sound of dragons roaring. And promptly fell off the cot in the forge. Something about that sound made his hair stand on edge; it induced an instinctual reaction of fear – to flee or to hide. He could only calm his racing heart with the reminder that dragons were a good thing. Dragons roaring meant the Queen and Jon were back – well, hopefully both of them.

Gendry had stayed outside until night fell completely, and only crossed to the forge when it was well past midnight. After Jon and the Queen had taken to the skies, no one went to bed. People milled about the courtyard, even in the impenetrable dark of the cloudy night. Daenerys’ advisors and other lords went the great hall, but not before Lord Tyrion had paced a track in the snow near the gates. As Gendry had made his way to the warmth of the smithy, he’d noticed a small figure still standing outside Winterfell’s great archway. The temperature had been falling fast, but Arya still waited in the cold. She had probably stayed there all night, waiting.

Now Gendry rushed out to the plateau beyond the gates. It was the wee hours and nearly impossible to see as torchlight was smothered and blurred by the heavily falling snow. A crowd had gathered. The dragons huffed and bellowed, their breath turning the snow around them to steam and melting footprints in the packed ice.

Gendry reached the group of worried lords, ladies, and advisors just as the bigger one, Drogon, roared again and blew a column of fire in to the sky. By its light Gendry made out a small figure dismounting – the Queen’s ice-white hair was unmistakable, seeming to glow. In the crowd Gendry found Lady Sansa, Ser Davos, and Bran. He didn’t see Arya.

The other dragon mimicked Drogon’s call and by the light of the second flame Gendry saw Jon at Rhaegal’s feet. Jon helped Daenerys step down from Drogon’s massive shoulder; they met eyes and approached, looking exhausted and cold, but, thankfully, unharmed.

Voices rose – a clamor of shouts and questions – what had happened? How far had they gotten? Were they still in danger?

The Queen silenced them all, raising a hand. Many in the crowd backed away to reveal Lord Cerwyn, whose face was still etched with disdain.

Daenerys spoke: “As requested, Lord Cerwyn, the wights are dead.” She chucked a long spear – one of the spears Gendry had seen, now missing its icy tip – down at his feet. “And the bears have been melted.”

Lord Cerwyn did not deign to reply. No one spoke.

The Queen stared at him, rage boiling in her eyes. To his credit he did not balk. So, she stared and stared at him, seeming to Gendry more powerful and more mighty than the stubborn lord, than any of the lords, despite being nearly two heads shorter than all of the men.

The others around Lord Cerwyn succumbed to her gaze first, dipping their heads and murmuring thanks or pledges. Jon knelt in the snow and Lord Cerwyn glared at him. Sensing the change, Jon’s men knelt as well. Then Lady Mormont. Then the Queen’s people. And Gendry figured out that he should best kneel too – but he kept his eyes up, watching.

The battle of wills could have lasted for seconds, for minutes, or for hours. The Queen would not break, and Lord Cerwyn would not yield. Finally, as it seemed that the tension might turn to violence, a voice piped up from behind Jon.

“You’d best kneel Lord Cerwyn, after all it was that foolish, Northern stubbornness that got your father killed.”

The man sneered and turned his head … to Arya, standing next to the Queen and holding him prisoner with that same look.

She said again, “Kneel Lord Cerwyn. Your family shouldn’t die for your pride. Or your stupidity.”

With the eyes of both women solely focused on him – their rage palpable, rolling through the crowd in waves – Lord Cerwyn knelt.

“It’s about time you got on your knees before a woman. I’m sure your wife will be thrilled that the Queen taught you a new trick.”

Laughter rumbled through the crowd this time. The young lord’s face flared red and he dropped his head in shame.

Gendry raised his eyes to see Arya take a knee before the Queen as well – and the Queen smiled at her. Whatever animosity held between them had faded; Arya having changed her mind and thus secured the alliance between the North and the Queen. Jon may have been their leader, Sansa their Lady, and Bran their Lord, but these lords would not challenge Daenerys once Arya joined them. Not only because she was powerful on her own – lethal even – but because, unified with her family, the Stark pack was complete. Together were unbreakable, unstoppable, and mighty.

Whether she knew it or not, Arya was essential to their alliance and their strength - essential to the North. Sansa was the icy ground – the foundation of their home, cold and layered. Jon was the mountains and hills – grand, steady, and massive in scale, a solid rock of strength. Bran was the whispering wind, the mystery of icy streams and forest trails. And Arya … Arya was the wolves. The hawks, the big cats, the freezing rain, the blinding snow – the danger and majesty. Arya was the weapon.

And in that moment, as Arya knelt before the Queen, Gendry saw what would become of them if they lived through this. If they lived, somehow managed to stave off the Night king and the end of the world, Arya would become the sword that the Queen wielded to take back Westeros. She would be the Queen’s dagger, assassin, the greatest weapon in her arsenal and greatest ally. If they defeated the army of the dead, Cersei Lannister wouldn’t stand a chance. Gods-help-them-all if they became friends: they could control the world with fire and ice.

 

* * *

 

It was a cold night. Moments ago, Arya had been shaking in her boots, unable to stave off her body’s reaction to the freezing snow. Ice had formed on her coat.

Now she was warm. Hot even. Burning with some unfamiliar fire – some sort of pride or maybe even joy. Righteous anger and happiness because she had gotten that ungrateful snot of a lord to kneel before the queen. _Her_ queen.

It hadn’t been a spur of the moment decision. In all that time that she’d waited for Jon to return she had been thinking, debating with herself the merits of challenging or supporting his decision.

As much as she wanted to rage against him, she found that her anger stretched only to Jon’s decision not to tell her – not his actual actions. She wanted to hate the queen; her feelings on the matter were nothing less than a roiling, angry combination of pride, disgust, and envy – envy because this stranger held Jon’s confidence where Arya did not.

But as much as she wanted to rally against Jon’s decision – demand like the other lords that he take back his crown – she couldn’t. She trusted him too much. The rational part of her brain kept telling her that Jon wasn’t like other men. He hadn’t bent the knee because he wanted to keep sleeping with Daenerys – he was more honorable than that. He hadn’t bent the knee out of some misguided belief that the dragons would magically save them all – he was preparing for every possibility, not just relying on the dragons. But still keeping in mind that they could turn the tide of any battle.

Jon had bent the knee because he trusted this Dragon Queen and Arya knew his trust was not easily won.

Beyond all her reasoning about Jon, Arya had few other sources from which to draw her information. Only rumors and mystery.

While in Essos Arya had heard snippets – carried in on ships from the traders of Slavers Bay: The Queen had dismantled the economies of three great cities, certain to bring ruin. The Queen had crucified the Masters and wealthy townspeople of those cities. She had set the slaves free. She was merely a look-a-like – a child of eleven who happened to look like a Targaryen and thus a pawn easily controlled by Tyrion Lannister. Enemies of the crown had sold her to the Dothraki in hopes of decimating Westeros. She was seductress who used her magical charms to enchant any man she came across – and murder those men when they were sleeping. She was a demon made flesh, a witch who used black magic to raise her dragons from the dead.

Each rumor had sounded more ridiculous than the last. The only truths – about her freeing the slaves, the turmoil in the cities, and plans for invasion – painted her as a fickle and ruthless ruler. Perhaps even a madwoman, for each action seemed to contradict the last.

Arya had not expected what she saw upon meeting the Queen. When she had seen the slight woman step down from her white mare at the gates of Winterfell, Arya had actually started, realizing that – because of the rumors of Daenerys desire for power and supposed bloodthirstiness – she had been picturing Cersei Lannister with white hair and purple eyes. Daenerys looked nothing like Cersei. And she didn’t act like her either.

Perhaps that was Arya’s great fear: that this queen would be like the other Queen. No, not perhaps. That _was_ her fear. A fear that sent shivers up her spine and formed ice in her stomach, haunting her ever since she had heard of the pending alliance. But Arya found that there were no similarities between Cersei and the Queen beyond power – and that made Arya pause. People likely sought to demonize her for that reason. Because she was a woman in power, they would tear her apart. To the men of this world, her titles, position, and ambition were an insult.

And Arya had fallen for their lies. Just as the audiences of the players in Braavos had believed that story about the War of the Five Kings – laughable in its inaccuracies – Arya had listened only to stories. What was the reality?

Daenerys treated her soldiers and advisors with respect, as friends even. She was always kind to the servants. She often raised her voice but never threatened her Hand – even when Arya thought that Tyrion was overstepping his bounds. She treated the lords who respected her with equal respect – if she was a bit forward or rough it was only because of mistrust. Her wit was ruthless to those who disrespected her – especially the men. Arya could absolutely understand that. And the way she had treated Lady Mormont …

Now with all of those stories cleared from her head – with new thoughts in mind and Jon’s trust for supporting evidence – Arya had no reason to distrust the Queen.

So, she decided that, if Queen Daenerys brought her brother back alive (for the second time actually) she would throw in her support.

It seemed only moments later that the Queen and her brother landed, Drogon nearly covering her with snow spraying from under his great feet. While others peered about in the dark and shouted, Arya quickly spotted Jon and Daenerys dismounting.

The two approached the crowd but Arya stayed back, instead stepping toward the dragon who turned its great head to peer at her.

She did not balk as he surveyed her, knowing all too well how to treat a predator. As she peered in to the great beast’s yellow eye, she felt her own eyes grow wide of their own volition, wonder and awe overcoming her senses. He was not an abomination or a demon or some witch’s trick. He was a miracle. He was raw power. And Arya was drawn to him. She had vowed to herself to join the Queen but the final nail in the coffin, the extra bit of motivation she needed, was her own selfish desire to gain the trust of this animal. Oh, she would help the queen, she would be the most loyal servant Daenerys had ever known if just to get the chance to touch him. To ride him. To see him blow fire and feel the wind in her hair.

Arya was just reaching out, tentatively and slowly, when she heard Lord Cerwyn’s grating words and the silence that followed. So, she abandoned her mission – promising herself later, later she would get close – to come to the Queen’s defense. Because if Daenerys was _her_ Queen, then no one would speak to her Queen like that.

Now Arya stood and reveled in the feeling of victory, realizing that loyalty to something – a cause – and someone other than herself no longer felt dangerous. It felt good. It felt like fire heating the marrow of her bones and coursing through her veins.

Jon stood. Then the others stood. And the sizzling, rippling energy that had been coursing through the crowd dissipated in an instant, turned to exhaustion. People broke off in groups and pairs, making for the warmth of Winterfell’s hearth and the softness of downy beds. But Arya did not feel that exhaustion, instead walking quickly after Jon who was, like the others, trudging through the snow with slumped shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, so, last time I promised that I would be getting back to a regular schedule and that didn't happen. Why? A number of reasons, the primary one being that I got sick - like super sick. Now I'm back at school and classes are starting-up BUT I am holding my editor to her promise that she would make me write part of a chapter weekly. Also, I'm feeling the pressure to finish this fic before the new season comes out and avoiding spoilers AT ALL COSTS. So anyways, thank you for reading, please keep giving feedback, and enjoy! 
> 
> P.S. The next chapter is the longest one yet and it's in editing, but I'm not making any promises as to when I'll publish it because I am inconsistent garbage.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She looked at him quizzically._
> 
> _“Dragons … get hot,” he said by way of cryptic answer._
> 
> _“Dragons get hot?”_
> 
> _“When they blow fire. Their skin gets hot.”_

Arya finally caught up to Jon at the door to his room. He turned his bleary eyes towards her and his expression sent a crack through her heart. He was pleading for forgiveness. But Arya shook her head and threw her arms around him instead: “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Me too,” he said. Arya chuckled and released him.

Jon’s eyes crinkled, the beginnings of a smile. “What you did out there … thank you, Arya.” 

“If you trust her, I trust her. And besides I might get to ride a dragon too.”

He grinned this time, but instead Arya noted the odd positioning of his arms.

“You’re hurt.” He went to pull back, but she reached for his wrists and turned over his hands. His thick gloves had been burned cleaned through in places, leaving angry welts and red splotches.

She looked at him quizzically.

“Dragons … get hot,” he said by way of cryptic answer.

“Dragons get hot?”

“When they blow fire. Their skin gets hot.”

She rolled her eyes. “And why, pray tell, did you not notice this before?”

“The first time everyone rode, well, we were so frostbitten and starvin’ and injured that we didn’ notice.”

“What about the Queen?”

“She’s immune to fire.” Arya looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if to say _yeah_ _right_.

“No really. Ask ‘er to stick her hand in a candle at dinner or somethin’. First time I saw her pick up a lamp that had fallen on the floor – I was scared to death. She patted out the fire with her bare hands and when I went to look …,” he shrugged, “nothing. Not even a little red.”

“Useful magic trick.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Especially if you want to ride dragons.”

“I’ll have some special armor made or something. But in the meantime, we need to fix your hands. Have you got anything in your room? I’d hate to wake the Maester at this hour.”

“Yeah, got nearly everythin’ so I don’ have t’bother anyone.”

He reached for the door handle, but Arya opened it before his burned hands could make contact. “Be careful. You’ll make it worse. You just sit, and I’ll get everything.”

“Fine. But while you fix me up, you have to talk.” He gestured to a box, which she assumed held the aforementioned medical supplies

“Talk?” She crossed to a small chest of drawers, nestled in the stone windowsill and started combing through for burn cream and bandages.

His looked at her, deadly serious. “Yes, talk. There’s a lot a’ things you haven’ told me. I wan’to know what happened to you. You don’t have to tell me everythin’ but … after all this time you owe me a few secrets.”

Arya turned back to the chest, pulling out two rolls of clean white cloth. “You know it won’t be a pleasant story.”

“No one has a pleasant story.”

Arya sighed and crossed to him, having found the bandages and the jug of thick yellow paste she’d been looking for. She sat in the chair across from him at the fire place and gently pulled off his gloves. Then she began to smear handfuls of the smelly goop on to his hands, talking and wrinkling her nose all the while.

“In short … well I’ll start with Kings Landing. No, rather, on the way there … on the Kingsroad something awful happened. We stopped at an inn for a day or two. I made friends with the butcher’s son, Micah. Father didn’t care, and I was so happy because he’d never let me have so much freedom before. One day we were sparring down by the stream – not really sparring just playing at knights with wooden sticks. I did have Needle with me. And Joffrey and Sansa walked down from the camp, arm in arm. She was already enamored with him, all moony eyed and … well you remember how Sansa was with boys.”

Jon nodded, gravely. Perhaps thinking of how Sansa’s dream – to be married to a handsome lord and have many children and be lady of castle – had been twisted and corrupted. That’s what Arya thought of when she remembered those moments. It haunted her.

“Well, Micah accidentally hit me. I saw Sansa and dropped my wooden sword, but he didn’t. It really wasn’t a big deal. But Joffrey started making fun of Micah, berating him for hitting me. He cut a huge scratch down the side of Micah’s cheek and there wasn’t anything we could do because he was the Prince. But I told him to stop and hit him with the stick. Joffrey turned around at started swinging at me. I disarmed him. Then there was a fight and I fell on the ground or something – I can’t remember perfectly. But Nymeria saw that Joffrey was hurting me and she bit him. He screamed like a little girl about how he was going to kill her and Micah too and me… I ran with Nymeria.”

Jon looked horrified, knowing all too well the rumors about Joffrey’s temper – his madness.

“They looked for us, the guards and father’s men. I made Nymeria run. I knew they would kill her if she didn’t run and … if she did run I would never see her again. I had to throw a stone at her to make her leave. Then the guards found me and brought me before King Robert. I was scared and angry: they would hurt Nymeria, they might hurt Micah. The King thought it was all ridiculous – child’s play and a misunderstanding. But Cersei – Cersei said someone had to pay.”

Arya finished with Jon’s hands, having coated them with poltice and wrapped them in the clean bindings. But she did not look up.

“They killed Lady. Because Cersei made them. Father did it, so it would be quick. And Sansa cried. I’d never seen her cry like that, even when she threw a tantrum. I thought she would never forgive me – or father.”

She looked up. “What’s worse … I don’t remember when I learned it, everything is so muddled but … they killed the butcher’s boy.”

Jon’s eyes turned sorrowful and he said, “they killed a child.”

“The Hound did. Because Joffrey told him too. They hunted him down like an animal … And from that moment I knew we weren’t safe. Even when I was happy – father got me sparring lessons with a man from Braavos, to teach me how to use Needle and I was so incredibly happy! But even then, I was afraid. And that was only the beginning.”

Jon nodded, knowing what would happen next, but asked, “How did you escape? Before they executed father.”

“I didn’t.”

He looked confused. Shocked.

“I didn’t escape before they killed father. I hid in King’s Landing for a long time. I ate rats and pigeons and stole food from the markets and carts. I was there …” Arya looked down at her hands.

Jon’s voice was soft when he said, “You were there when they killed him.”

Arya nodded.

“Did you see it?”

She nodded again. Slower.

“I’m so sorry, Arya.”

“Don’t be sorry. It doesn’t matter if I was there or in Winterfell or at the Wall. It would have hurt the same.”

She looked up, meeting Jon’s eyes. His pain was a the same as hers, his expression a mirror image.

Arya continued anyways, “Besides, I saw far worse in the years that came.”

His eyes cleared, and he merely inclined his head, giving her once again that look of understanding. They had both been through much worse. For truly, father’s death had only been the beginning.

“Let me help you with your armor. You can’t very well take it off with those club hands.”

Jon snorted. “How am I supposed t’ hold a pen and write my lordly decrees now?”

“If you don’t like my methods you can go get Sansa instead.”

“I know better than to wake her up, but I will say – its certain you were never meant t’ be a Septa.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and stood to help him with his cloak.

“You still haven’ told me how you met Gendry.”

The fur cloak fell to the floor. Arya snorted and said, “I told you there isn’t anything to tell.”

“Nothing to tell? You attacked the poor man! An’ he says he’s known you for years. Years, Arya.”

The breastplate came off next. Jon clumsily used his bandaged hands to place it on the floor. Arya mumbled under her breath, “Of course he told you, gossipy old hen.”

“Well, he didn’ really tell me anything. Only tha’ he knew you when you were younger.”

She started on Jon’s bandolier of knives, crisscrossed over his back like father used to wear. “Fine. I guess … well, you’re right. I did know him for years. I think. I actually don’t know how much time passed when I was with him and Hot Pie. No calendars and no Maesters when you’re at Harrenhal.”

Jon started, “Harrenhal? And what in-seven-hells is a Hot Pie?”

Arya chuckled just a bit. “ _Who_ in seven hells is Hot Pie. And he’s a friend.” The bandolier came off. She chucked it on the floor and started on the laces of his soft-armor jerkin.

“Okay, so Hot Pie is another friend. But Arya …” he turned to her, “you were at Harrenhal?” He looked worried.

“For a time yes. But we made it out, not a scratch on us.” He didn’t look convinced. She tried to sooth him, “It was ages ago Jon, and really not a scratch. That’s a longer story than the first one.”

“Alrigh’ then, where were you before. And after? Where did you go after?”

The first sleeve came off, so she started on the other. “Well, it actually starts with father’s … death. The day of the execution, I was in the crowd, standing on the pedestal of a statue of Baelor outside the sept. I think father saw me, maybe. His eyes went all wide.

Sansa had begged Joffrey for mercy; Cersei planned to send father to the Wall but… then Joffrey decided to execute him, as a show of his ruthlessness. Sansa started screaming and sobbing. I could see her crying from where I was. I started to draw Needle like I might go kill all the guards and Joffrey and the Hound. But before I knew it, someone had snatched me up. I was terrified thinking the guards had found me. I looked at the man who grabbed me and he was dressed all in Black – a Night’s watch man. But I was so scared for father and in such a frenzy that I kept struggling. He covered my eyes when they … when the sword dropped. He kept telling me not to look. It felt like the whole world went quiet and I saw the pigeons fluttering off in fear. Sansa fainted. But that man kept holding me, squeezing me so tight it hurt.”

The second sleeve came off. She started on the front laces. “Turns out he _was_ a man from the Night’s Watch. Yoren, if you ever met him. He took me in to an alley and cut off all my hair and scared me shitless. Kept calling me a boy. I finally calmed down after a while and he told me he was with the Night’s Watch and he was taking me north, to Winterfell or to you. He told me that my name was Arry, I was an orphan, and no one would give three shits about an orphan.”

“He wanted you t’ travel with Night’s Watch recruits? That’s so dangerous. Do you know wha’ kind of men end up in the Night’s Watch?”

“Yes. I do. That’s why he cut off all my hair. Safer to travel as a boy. That’s where a met Gendry and Hot Pie. Hot Pie had got in trouble for thieving or something – I dunno. But first thing when I saw him he started picking on me. Me, being a stubborn little idiot, pulled Needle on him. I was so messed up and angry and scared that I might have actually killed him. When I first ran from the palace … I did kill a boy. A stable boy who was going to take me to the queen. Honestly it was an accident. But with Hot Pie… I really was ready to do it.”

Jon pursed his lips. Arya finished with the laces and gestured for him to scoot forward. She carefully helped him slide the vest off his shoulders and over his stumpy hands.

“I was backing Hot Pie up, poking him with Needle. Then he bumped in to Gendry. He told Hot Pie to pick on someone his own size or something like that. Helped me out. He was the first person who had shown me any bit of kindness in weeks and it helped me get back to myself. Later Gendry told me that from the first moment he knew I was a girl – and that’s part of the reason why he helped me.”

Jon raised an eyebrow and Arya started folding his clothes up, actually wanting to finish the story. Making up more things to do to pass the time.

“Yes. He knew I was a girl. Don’t get over protective. He finally told me when I came back from taking a piss one day. Told me I ‘ought to find a way to look less suspicious or someone would figure it out. I still think he was wrong. None of those idiots could have figured it out – especially Hot Pie.”

She’d run out of things to do and stood motionless in the middle of the room. Jon’s eyes crinkled, and he said “You know, you can keep talkin’ if you wan’ to. It’s alright to talk Arya.”

“I haven’t … I haven’t really talked to anyone – like this – in a while.”

“Me neither. Sit.”

Arya sat. Jon relaxed in his chair and looked at her to continue.

“Eventually, Gendry figured out I was a Lady. Freaked out. Absolutely lost it. I never could get him to stop calling me m’lady.” Arya crinkled her nose with distaste. “Still can’t actually.”

Jon smirked, and she threw him a dirty look.

“Anyways, one day, some Goldcloaks came up to the camp. Yoren told them to fuck off and threatened one of the men. Useful trick actually, putting the knife right on the artery on his thigh. I panicked at first  thinking they were looking for me … that’s how Gendry found out I was a Lady. He panicked – started apologizing and bowing and scraping and all that crap … but, as the men were leaving, they said they were looking for a lad named Gendry who carried a helmet.”  

“A helmet?”

“The one thing he took from the smith when his Master pawned him off on the Night’s Watch: a helmet shaped like a bull’s head. Later when the guards came back with some men loyal to house Lannister. They killed Yoren and some other boys and men. A fire started. It was … chaos, absolute chaos. Hot Pie, Gendry, and me ran, but they caught us eventually. They asked all of us who survived where Gendry was, and I was scared shitless that someone would give him up. No one did. I thought quick and said that another boy – Lommy – was Gendry and that they’d already gotten him. It worked ‘cause he had stolen Gendry’s helmet.

Later I learned why they were looking for Gendry: someone kept a record of King Robert’s bastards and Cersei had them all hunted down and killed. Gendry’s Master sold him out to the Goldcloaks, even though he’d never told Gendry who his father was. After, they took us to Harrenhall along with a bunch of other people. They were rounding up nearly everyone in the Riverlands and taking them there, while looking for a group called the Brotherhood without Banners.”

 “I heard about tha’ from someone. They burned nearly half a’ the farms in the Reach.”

Arya nodded. “Harrenhal was a nightmare. I don’t know how long they kept us for; they kept us in cages with the other people. Everyday they would cart someone away to question – torture – or kill for crimes they didn’t commit. One day they took Gendry. He didn’t know anything, and I couldn’t let something happen to him, couldn’t let them torture him. And on that day – luckily or unluckily – Tywin Lannister happened to ride in.”

Jon widened his eyes, curiosity piqued.

“Tywin Lannister stopped them from killing Gendry and berated them for wasting good workers – especially because he asked if Gendry had a trade. He asked all the others if they had any skills too – Hot Pie got sent to work in the kitchens and me … Tywin figured out in less than half-a-second that I was a girl. I smartly told him that it was safer to travel that way, and he liked my smart mouth so much that he took me for his cup bearer.”

Jon looked incredulous. Then chuckled. “I wouldn’ believe it if anyone else had told me, but here you are. You ended up cupbearer to Tywin Lannister. I bet you saw all the meetings – the plans – you could have been spying for Robb the whole time.”

Arya nodded and smiled. “I was. I paid attention to every plan, every map, and every report. That is, until he figured out I could read. I told myself that, when I got back to Robb, he would be so grateful for my information that he would make me a squire.” She laughed a little, “A squire. Even faced with Tywin Lannister I was still dreaming about being a knight.”

Jon’s smiled waned and he asked, “You never got to Robb did you? Or you’d be dead for sure.”

Arya’s heart cracked just a bit, old wounds threatening to tear open. “Yes. I mean, no. I never made it to Robb. We escaped when Tywin Lannister rode off to battle and the rest is a long story – especially how Gendry and Hot Pie and I got separated but … even though I know I would have been killed I wish I had made it. Just to see them again.”

Jon nodded. “Me too. I wish … even though I would have been hunted for desertion and probably killed later – I wish I had been there too. Sometimes I think I might’ta  saved them. Taken an arrow, stopped a knife – even hustled Catelyn out of the room and ridden away.”

“I think the same.” Arya let her head fall, staring at her lap again, “But I don’t think there’s anything we could have done.”

Jon extended a bandage wrapped hand, setting the nub on her knee. “We’ll make this righ’ Arya. Even just by living we make this right.”

She smiled just a bit and Jon continued, “Now, I hate t’ask this, but can you help me get my shirt off too?”

Arya snorted, “You’re as helpless as a babe.”

“It’s not my fault you turned my hands t’clubs.”

Arya giggled – a high pitched thing she always tried to suppress. Jon blinked and laughed too, hard. They dissolved into fits of it, guffawing and shaking as Arya helped him get off his shirt. Nothing was really that funny, but she was just happy to be laughing with _him_. To have even a little something to laugh about.

Hers had diminished to chuckles when she threw his shirt on the floor, finally having gotten past the laces at the wrists and neck, having gotten the tight ends of the sleeves past Jon’s nubs. But her laughter stopped short even as he tried to catch his breath.

“Jon.”

Jon wheezed, “Wha – what Arya?”

“Where did you get those scars?”

He stilled, growing serious in an instant. “It’s not a pretty story.”

“Jon,” she pleaded, “I told you one now you tell me yours.”

“Arya, please, anything but that. An’ the dawn is coming –”

“Jon, it looks like someone tried to kill you. Please tell me.”

His face tightened. Arya’s eyes grew wide, “Someone did try to kill you. By the gods Jon.”

“I know someone did the same t’ you.”

She straightened, on guard on instinct. “How did you know about that?”

“The Maester saw the scars, after you attacked Gendry.”

Arya’s face grew hot. She didn’t want to talk about this, anything but this. She needed to leave. She had to –

“Arya, if you don’ want to talk about it, you don’ have to.” She looked to him, the breaths that had been coming faster easing. “But I don’ want to talk about mine.”

“That’s fair,” she said, voice cool and calm even though she was cursing herself inside – calling herself a dolt and a coward for letting her panic get the best of her.

“I know it’s hard Arya. You don’t need to beat yourself up abou’ it.” She looked to him. How did he always understand? How did he always know?

“It’s okay t’ be scared Arya. You don’t have t’ be brave all the time. You don’t have to be strong around me, not if you can’t be.”

She eased in to her chair, all the fight rushing out of her. Seven-hells, she was going to cry, the tears were building, and she fought them. No tears, no tears.

Jon sat, and spoke before they could fall. “I know we should go to bed, and I don’t wan’ to tell you the story of … these,” he gestured to the scars on his chest and abdomen. “But its only fair that I share something. Ask … ask whatever you want t’ ask.”

Anything. She could ask him anything. Her tears cleared as a little spark of joy fluttered in her heart. Jon really did trust her. And there were so many unanswered questions.

They sat in silence for a minute. Arya racked her brain, but finally settled on a question, saying, “Why did you bend the knee to the Queen?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Still mad a’ me, are you?”

“No. I wasn’t mad that you bent the knee. I was mad that you didn’t tell me. And really, I know why you bent the knee – I can see why you would trust her I guess but …” she struggled for the words, the awkward words. “Are you sleeping with her?”

“What?”

“Are you sleeping with the Queen.”

Jon’s face turned red. Bright, bright red. “I… Arya – I don’t. That’s not …” She stared at him as he tripped over his words; she’d really caught him off guard.

Finally, he sighed and said, “Yes.”

“Is that part of the reason you bent the knee?”

“Gods-above, Arya, do you think so little of me?”

“No, I just … well, I never thought that you – after you joined the Night’s Watch.”

“You thought I’d never what? Be attracted to women?”

“No. Oh gods, this is coming out all wrong. I mean…” Arya took a breath. “I mean, do you love her?”

Jon turned his face away, looking to the ground. Arya knew she had asked the wrong question. Jon’s shoulders slumped, and he whispered, “No.”

“Jon, it’s alright if you do. I just want to know why. Well not why, but if you do … that changes things.”

He looked back to her and his sorrow was so deep that her questions and explanations caught in her throat.

“I don’ love her. Well, I do … but not like you think. Nor does she feel that way about me.” He sighed, “Neither of us will ever love like tha’ again.”

Arya had never seen him like this. She prodded, gently, “Again?”

Jon looked her in the eyes, “I don’t really want t’ tell the story. And part of it is hers to tell but … yes. Again. I will never love like that again, and neither will Daenerys.”

Arya settled back in to her chair again. Jon sighed and said, “I suppose we really will be up until the dawn.” She nodded. He released another long breath.

“I suppose I’ll start with the simpler part. Dany – I mean Daenerys was married before. To Khal Drogo.”

“The Dothraki lord, right?”

“Yes. I know tha’ that marriage started out rather unpleasantly. Her brother practically sold her off but… she tells me that over time her feelings changed. She came to love ‘im. He promised her the Iron Throne. She got pregnant an’ her love only grew until she was deeply, madly in love with him then … she hasn’t told me the story, but she lost him and the baby in the same day.”

Arya felt her heart squeeze – to lose your family before a family even began …

“She cannot have children, or so she says. She will never have any other family but her dragons. It is her great sorrow. As for me…”

Jon’s eyes clouded. Arya spoke softly: “Tell me about her.”

He swallowed hard. “She was a Wildling. Before they came below the Wall … the Bothers went in search of Mance Raider. The King-Beyond-the-Wall. He was uniting the Wildlings – or rather the Free Folk – to take on the Night’s Watch and get to safety below the Wall. When we first met, she tried t’ kill me.”

A little laughter sparkled in Jon’s eyes, “I ended up takin’ her prisoner actually. And gods she was a pain. I was so naïve, so worried about trying to prove myself tha’ I tripped up at every step. An’ she was … well, a bit like you actually. Full of sarcasm, mocking me at every turn, fierce. She had red hair like Sansa used to, maybe even a bit brighter. More orange. And she ‘ad blue grey eyes that looked like a winter storm.”  

Arya would have laughed, to see Jon wax poetic about a girl, but kept quiet because this was serious. This wouldn’t end happily.

He smiled now. “The rest of the Free Folk ended up capturin’ me. She stopped them from killing me and I gained their loyalty. And as I stayed with the Free Folk, as I came to love the North and understand them, I fell in love with ‘er.”

His face hardened, mood turning in an instant. “It was never … there was always the question of loyalty. To the Wildlings – and to her – or t’ the Night’s Watch. I tried to convince ‘er to join me. To come with me below the Wall. She tried t’ convince me to join the Free Folk.”

“Finally, the choice came. And I …” he sighed, “I told myself tha’ I was choosing Westeros. That I was choosing all the people of the North. That I was even helpin’ her, going back to the Night’s Watch so I could convince them to save the Wildlings. But I wasn’t.”

His voice caught, a slight sound but it spoke volumes. “I was just tearin’ out my own heart. Piece by piece. And I felt that I deserved it when she shot me full of arrows.” He paused, seeming to brace himself for pain.

“When the Wildlings attacked I hoped she wouldn’ be with them. I prayed to every god I knew tha’ she had run south, went off to live in the woods of the North. There wasn’ any hope of that. I saw her … she saw me … I could have recognized ‘er from an ocean away. When she looked at me, it broke my heart all over again, seein’ how she hated me.”

“She acted on that. She tried t’ kill me – I think. She aimed. But before I could even say her name … I remember smiling at her and she crying, and I wanted to say something, anything. But …”

Jon choked up, his next words were a whisper, carried on a voice heavy with tears. “There was a boy in the Night’s Watch: Olly. His parents were killed by Wildlings. He had a bow and arrow – a bow tha’ I taught him how to shoot proper and …” Jon’s next words were nearly inaudible, “He shot her.”

Arya’s heart broke as he put his head in his hands. He took shaky breaths. When he lifted his head, an age later, the remnants of tears had been wiped away.

“She died tha’ night. Right then. I went to her and I held her … But I had to keep fighting – for my brothers. Later, I built her a pyre north of the wall, stick by stick, an’ burned her myself. That’s why … that’s why I’ll never really love Daenerys. How can I? After all tha’ I don’t think anything could feel the same. I don’ want to feel the same.”

“I understand, Jon.”

“No, you don’. I hope you never do.” He looked to her and she placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry then. Even if I can’t understand.”

“Me too.”

Quietly, Arya asked one more question: “What was her name?”

“Ygritte.”

And then first rays of the dawn sun broke through the frosted window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many excuses for why I haven't updated: school, my health, my family, but really I am just a procrastinating, forgetful bastard. Here is the new chapter! I have written a lot this week and I have my editor holding me to posting weekly (so blame her if I don't). As always, thanks for reading.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The sun fell slowly, crawling across the sky. The cold never really faded and the ice never melted but Gendry felt warm – happy even. He was content to be alone with the sunlight and the old gods, though, as time passed, he began to wish that Arya would join him. Not to talk, but to share comfortable silence as they had on the occasional summer afternoon when they could fill their stomachs with a fat rabbit or some fish._

Gendry woke early the next morning, despite how late he’d stayed up. He clamored from his bed with new resolve and hope he hadn't felt in two weeks. 

Jon had made his new allegiances known and the transition had been made relatively smoothly. Smoothly, because no one had been run through. The dragonglass was finally unloaded, the instructions were set arrive within the week – if the weather permitted. And the trenches around Winterfell were complete, soon to be filled with wooden spikes and all sorts of treacherous traps. 

Even better, the day was warmer than the previous dawns. The snows of the night before had covered the castle in a fine white powder and ice glistened in dripping stalactites, but the sun shone, making the frost beautiful to his eye, rather than discomforting.

So, Gendry made his way to the outbuilding beyond the kitchens with a new appreciation for the Northern beauty and a spring in his step not hindered by icy ground. 

The best thing yet, however, was his new hope for Arya and for his friendship with her. If she could temper her distaste for the queen, if she seemed more herself in interacting with her brother, perhaps he could approach her in truce and begin to rebuild their shattered relationship. 

Besides, he had a plan – he had a plan and his plan, though not the best, was better than no plan. 

Gendry ate his morning meal quickly, swallowing his bread and bacon in a few bites, washing it down with a swig of ale, before making his way hastily to the smithy. 

He had some other pieces to finish first: a sword that needed grinding and polishing, a set of pauldrons for some Northern lord that needed dents removed, and a mail shirt that needed several rows of new links to account for old ones that had rusted away. All of this took more time to complete than he wished, the mail especially: it was delicate work and required more concentration than he had patience for. 

It was nearly noon by the time he finished with his previous tasks before Gendry could begin work on Arya's gift. 

He began with the pommel*, which he planned to shape in detail according to the charcoal sketch he had hastily drawn before falling asleep. 

He began with a block of bronze which he heated in the forge until it was molten. He then poured it into the basic mold used for most pommels: the shape would only come out as a ball attached to a cylinder - the cylinder containing a slot for the tang* – but he would later shape that ball according to his design with careful etching and engraving. 

While the bronze cooled, he began work on the cross guard*. They had only simple sheet steel, not particularly strong or beautiful, but he forge-welded* sheets together, folding it over and over again until it reached a better layer count. He then squared the block before taking it to the anvil to stretch it. Next he hot cut* it to length: it would be wide as befit a longsword, but not as wide as he might usually make it, to avoid unnecessary weight. Not that Arya couldn’t lift it – and not that anyone would ever point it out – but she was quite a bit shorter than the average knight. 

He rounded the edges of the cross guard to a gentle scrolling curve, cut the slot for the tang, and reshaped the quillion block* in the middle to a slopping triangle design.  Later he would carve the elegant runes that decorated many of the Northern family heirloom blades and file the block according to his design. 

Finally, he selected a block of wood for the handle – a fine dark oak – and bore the hole down the center. Carving the actual handle and sanding it to shape would have to be the responsibility of another craftsman (Gendry found that he was oft too rough with wood and could never find the right grain to smooth it properly).  

Gendry decided to wait to forge the blade itself. It would be best if it was made of dragonglass and steel, so it might slay white walkers and the dead … That is, if it was possible to combine the two materials. He had already examined one of the few remaining dragonglass daggers that Jon had, and found the material to be brittle and easy to shatter like – well like glass. He hoped that backing it with steel would make it stronger, or, if it couldn’t be melded to steel, it could be blown and shaped like other glass –there was one man in the camp who could work with glass – Adger – who had come from one of the southern-most fortresses. The daggers of the First Men had been cut and carved; they were neither strong nor large enough to fight on the field with. Only lucky men or the very best fighters in the world could stand a chance with daggers alone. 

Gendry tried to shake these thoughts from his head as he worked: they made his stomach ache with nerves. If he couldn’t work the obsidian and if Sam’s instructions couldn’t help him … No. It would have to work. Or he would spend every minute until the walkers came trying to find another way work that stone. 

Gendry finished the work that he could on the sword by late afternoon, having quite forgot his midday meal in concentration. 

He ventured to the Godswood from the kitchens, taking a piece of hardy cheese in a swath of cloth, along with his charcoal and parchment. 

He sat across form the great weirwood tree on a flat and smooth rock, letting the rare sun warm his fingers before taking up the stick of charcoal. The face of the tree no longer frightened him, having become a comfort – a sort of companion in solitude. 

Gendry sketched as he snacked. He needed a new hammer, and since he had the time to forge one, he would prefer it over any generic broadsword. This new weapon would need no decoration, but Gendry hoped to incorporate some obsidian, again not trusting the brittle stone to keep the full shape itself. 

The sun fell slowly, crawling across the sky. The cold never really faded and the ice never melted but Gendry felt warm – happy even. He was content to be alone with the sunlight and the old gods, though, as time passed, he began to wish that Arya would join him. Not to talk, but to share comfortable silence as they had on the occasional summer afternoon when they could fill their stomachs with a fat rabbit or some fish. Not long had these musings crossed his mind when he was met with a different companion; he saw Jon trekking through the Godswood and wondered if the tree had heard his wish for company. After all, these old gods seemed more present and more godly, than the Seven had ever seemed in his childhood.  

Jon seemed surprised to find Gendry there, but nodded his head in acknowledgement before sitting down to his own task: sharpening a great sword – not Longclaw – with a whetstone. 

Gendry spoke, "You needn't do that yerself m'lord. I could take care of it for you, real quick on the grinding stone." 

“You needn't call me m'lord." 

"Alrigh' but I can still do that for you." 

"No need, really. I prefer t’do it myself." 

Gendry looked at him quizzically, an explanation seemed forthcoming. 

Jon stared off for a moment, ponderously, before saying slowly, "My father used to do this. He would come to the Godswood for peace and quiet, but bring something to do with his hands – he was never not busy. And when he came here to sharpen Ice ... it was almost holy, like a prayer or ritual. He always said that a man should care for his weapon, treat it with respect, and never dishonour the blade, so it would never fail him. 

Gendry nodded, "I understand. There's something personal about weapons like that. It becomes a part of you." 

Jon inclined his head in agreement, but stayed focused on his task. "His was even more personal because Ice was our family sword. It was the only piece of his brothers and his father left, a piece of our ancestors to be treated with the honour, like a member of the family even. He carried it with him always. Cleaned it each day, and only set it down on the special mount in his room." 

"I saw it when he visited me. A fine thing: real Valyrian steel and dark as night." 

"I sometimes wonder what became of it." 

"Fortunately or unfortunately I can tell you. My old master knew how to re-forge Valyrian steel and I heard what became of it when I returned – or so rumour says. They say it was melted down and used to create two new blades: one for King Joffrey and one for Jaime Lannister." 

Jon's face darkened, "Then I’ll take it back from the Lannisters.” His tone did not suggest he would ask nicely for the return of the steel. 

"I remember what it looked like. I could re-forge it for you – if the day ever comes." 

Jon finally looked up, "I'll hold you to that promise Gendry." 

Gendry merely nodded. 

"You owe me something else too," Jon said, his full attention now directed on Gendry, staring. It was amazing how much he looked like Arya. Their faces seemed sculpted from the same hard stone, their grey eyes like snow-bearing storm clouds. 

"You must tell me how you know my sister. I've managed to pry part of the story from her, but she's not inclined t’ tell me anything she doesn't want." 

Gendry snorted then said, "She's the most stubborn person I've ever known." 

"I'd tell you to be careful how you talk about my sister, but I can't help but agree. She was a willful child and gods-be-good she's probably gotten worse." 

"That's the truth. I hate to say suffering made her hard but ..." he drew a breath, suddenly tongue tied, "we never had an easy time of it." 

"I suppose I should thank you for looking out for her." 

Gendry barked a laugh before he could think. "You should thank her. I can't count how many times she saved my skin." 

Jon looked even more confused, so Gendry began his tale. He told Jon about meeting her beside the Night's Watch wagon and keeping her from murdering Hot Pie. He told Jon how she saved him from the Goldcloaks, getting them out of Harrenhal – even the means she'd exacted to do so. He told Jon with shame about their days thieving in the Riverlands, and finally about meeting the Brotherhood. 

That part was tough: he didn't want to admit that he'd abandoned her, so his story was full of apologies – which Jon brushed off. Gendry got the gist of Jon’s other solemn looks; for those sins that he had  _ actually _ committed he would have to receive absolution from Arya. Other things he'd done no longer seemed like crimes. In confessing them to another person, Gendry realized he held much guilt for things that were not his fault. Jon spoke true in saying it was unwise to carry burdens that were not his own. So, Gendry felt lighter. And lighter still with the realization that he might have found a friend. 

Arya was ... Arya. but Jon was someone his age, another bastard, another who understood the weight of the past and had experienced even more devastation than himself. 

Though wise, Jon was burdened by similar guilt. He was not forthcoming with words, but the constant slouch of his shoulders, his nods of understanding betrayed his feelings. His apologies too. As Gendry concluded his story they flowed forth. 

"I'm sorry for what happened when you came to Winterfell. I hadn't thought ... never could have imagined she would react like that. But had I asked you, I might've anticipated a ... bad reaction on her part and prepared appropriately." 

"There's no need to apologize. I don't blame her or you. And you wouldn't have been able to help anyways. You've seen how strong she is … Besides you kept her from dashing my brains out." Jon grimaced at that. 

"Let me at least apologize for what happened at the Wall. You could have died." 

"I'm more than willing to die for this." Jon opened his mouth to interrupt but Gendry spoke first. "It doesn't matter. We lived. That's all we can do – keep telling Death 'not today.'"

"I suppose. That's a curious way to put it but ... aye." 

"Your sister taught me that." 

Jon looked surprised.

"Her Bravoosi sword master taught her this, even before I met her – so she must have been …ten? Eleven? He said: there is only one God, his name is Death, and the only thing we must say to Death is 'not today.' I'm not sure if she actually believes it as religion but ... she always said it when she was afraid – when we were afraid." 

Jon looked suddenly somber. "You know her better than I do." 

"There's still time to get to know her." 

"Not time enough to make up for all those years." 

"But time enough to start." 

Jon cracked a small smile and said, "Thank you, Gendry." 

Gendry didn't know how to respond so he merely said, "Of course." 

Jon eyed him slyly. "So... I've heard you call her m'lady. If you want to fix what's between you, I'd recommend dropping the title. An' if you want to keep your fingers." 

"I've always called her that . And guarded much more than my hands. Truly I feared for my bollocks." 

They laughed. Jon's was a hearty one, but rough – not seldom heard and gruff from disuse.

"Aye. I would fear for mine too. When she was little she hated it. When father would talk about marriage or castles or lordly husbands she would screw up her face in disgust. One night, after her Septa had berated her for sloppy stitch-work, and her mother smacked her knuckles with a flat rod for disrespecting her Septa, she came to my room – crying. She cried because she didn't want to be a lady. She would never be good at needlework or knitting or singing or any ladylike things. She had only a head for figures, but she didn't want to run a household. Arya confided to me that she wanted to be a knight. If only she could have seen Brienne then. She might have wept again for joy." 

He smiled at the thought. "That's when I ordered Needle for her. I had to help Mikken around the forge for a month, running water, scrubbing, carrying all the things the old man couldn't lift." 

"She had that sword with her always ... I heard that killed a man to get it back when it was stolen." 

"I would expect no less." 

It was then that Gendry heard shouts form the battlements. Not the horns for danger – they'd taken up the Night's Watch call – but excited shouts. 

Jon listened cautiously then broke into the widest grin Gendry had seen, his expression both thrilled and relieved. "Sam is here. Now we can start the real work."

 

* * *

 

Arya slept past her usual time, on account of having stayed up so late. Even as she was cursing herself for her late start, she couldn't help but feel ... happy. Lighter than before. Talking to Jon had taken a burden off her shoulders she hadn't known she was carrying. 

Arya's morning began so late that the early meal had already been cleared from the kitchens, so she was left with tough jerky and water for her breakfast. 

She neglected her morning exercises because of her late start and made her way straight to the armory where Brienne was waiting. In the dark of night, while all awaited the return of Jon and the Queen, she'd briefly spoken to the lady-knight, asking for her tutelage in fighting with a longsword. Brienne had agreed and then Arya had begun her nighttime vigil. 

Brienne leaned against a great post, holding two simple, wooden training swords, her head nearly touching the ceiling of the nearby outcropping. Arya wanted to be offended by the choice of weapon but tamped down her pride with reason: she really did need to learn to fight with the great-sword in order that she might protect her family. And she needed to start from the beginning. Arya would have to sacrifice her pride. 

Brienne had ensured that the wound to her confidence was not run too deep, however, having dismissed the other trainees for the day to keep away any witnesses to Arya's humiliation. 

Brienne greeted her with a curt good morning and nodded goodbye to the Master-at-Arms: a strange man, with a strange name and an everyday reminder that everyone at Winterfell, almost all of the people she knew in her childhood, were dead. Arya effectively pushed those melancholy thoughts from her mind as they made their way to the smaller side yard, taking a moment to enjoy the rare sunny day before beginning. 

First, Brienne instructed her in stance and grip. The instruction was eerily familiar and strangely uncomfortable in the same. The grip, the stance, the basic forms of movement all went against Arya's instincts, made worse by the fact that she was left handed and always swung left. 

Syrio had once said it was a blessing; it would surprise her opponents. Her Septa had said it was a mark of bad luck – a fiery spirit ill becoming a lady. Perhaps both were right. 

Where the water dance was smooth, the knight's dance was rough. Where one was full of movement, the other was sturdy. The only advantages of Arya's previous training came in strength and speed. She had the muscle to lift the sword and make great, strong swings, but she had the tendency to lift her feet. And, while she could easily regain her balance, she was prone to tripping over the great blade, so she seemed as clumsy as a new fawn. 

Their morning session ended after Arya snapped the wooden training sword in half, stepping on it after forgetting the length when jumping up to stand. 

She and Brienne took lunch in the courtyard too and talked as they ate, enjoying the sun that still remained – another unexpected blessing in the winter. 

"I think I should switch you to a dulled metal blade." 

Arya snorted, "Afraid I'll snap another stick?" 

"No, my lad – Arya. I think the weight will help. When you use your mind – think about the new forms – you have no trouble. It’s when you forget you're carrying a longsword and rely on your instincts that you get tripped up." 

"I suppose..." 

"Water dancing is in your body. It’s become natural to you, like breathing. Once the longsword is in your body – once it becomes more natural – you'll be able to switch between the two, even merge styles. But for now, you must always think." 

It was thinking that caused sweat to form on Arya's brow as they continued practice. Every move she made she had to think and fight her body. And she couldn't neglect any part. If she focused on her feet alone, she would lose her grip, letting Brienne easily disarm her. If she focused too much on her hands and her stroke, she would forget her footing – meant to be wide and grounded – so she would topple when blocking.

Her shoulders ached, and thighs quaked with muscle spasms by the time Brienne suggested a duel – at half speed so she could observe and critique. 

Podrick came forward and Arya was too tired to protest. And, in truth, Podrick was about as threatening as the little fish that swam in the Godswood pond. Even though he was nearly the size of Gendry, he was gentle and kind and sweet. Not gallant like the knight's Sansa had once dreamt of, but better than many others she'd met. It was a shame he was still a squire. 

They began slowly and, though Podrick's strokes were unhurried and somewhat sloppy, they were still heavy. Arya bore more bruises than she wished to. 

Brienne shouted instructions from the sidelines: "Fix your stance," "Your grip Arya, your grip," "Put your whole body into it," "Swing now! Block!" on and on. 

They ended their exercises when Podrick smacked her in the face with the flat of the dulled blade. Not on purpose, he'd been aiming for her shoulder, but she'd stopped her turn and he'd stopped his arm when shouts rang and horns trumpeted in the outer courtyard – visitors arriving. 

Arya made her way to a nearby barrel of water and drew the ladle, drinking deeply.  It was cool snow melt and it seemed to be the best thing she'd ever tasted. 

She rubbed her shoulders and sat on a smaller crate, twisting her neck and stretching her arms. Brienne returned the training blades to their racks and then came back to sit with her. 

"Does your back hurt?" 

"Like the devil." 

"I think you put too much strain on it." 

"I've got to, haven't I? To make those swings?" 

"No." Brienne paused, thinking then said, "This kind of fighting is strong and ... big and loud, but it’s not so different from your dancing. You still need to move. You keep your feet on the ground, but you still put your hips in it, your shoulders, not just your arms." 

Brienne stood, demonstrating. "It starts in the legs. They support you, but they do bend. They're planted but springy. You don't bounce on your toes like with water dancing but the whole leg moves, a squat almost." She did so. 

"Then it’s the hips. The side swing starts in the hips and follows through the back. Like throwing a punch, you put your weight behind it while you twist." 

She demonstrated a swing. "Then the shoulders – the back supports the shoulders and the shoulders here," she gestured to the muscle at the top of the arm, "help lift the arm." 

"You also shouldn’t use your wrist so much. The sword is too heavy. You use the elbow and the shoulder for movement but the whole arm to propel it.” Another swing, in slow motion. 

"You have to prep for the swing and it builds." She showed her bent legs, twisting her torso and swinging back. 

"When using the longsword, we have to prepare – and that’s why your waterdancing is so effective against it. You see us going in for the move, but you can move first." 

Brienne stood still for a minute, thinking. Then she said, "That's the other part of your problem: you're worried about giving yourself away with the wind up. But fighting another knight, he'll do the same, so it won't matter. It also won't matter against the dead. They don't think or anticipate." 

She lowered her arms, dropping her imaginary blade. "At least ... I don't think they do." 

"Is that why you make so much noise when you fight?" 

"Pardon?" 

"You always grunt before you move; and it gives it away." 

Brienne smiled slightly and said, "I've never noticed. I'll have to try being more silent. Perhaps then I can surprise you." 

Arya smiled in return. "Perhaps." 

The shouting in the far courtyard started up again, not alarming but quite uproarious. 

"I suppose we should go over and see what all the commotion is about my lad – Arya." 

"We should  _ my lady _ ." 

Brienne looked surprised, then laughed, understanding Arya's jest. They walked over side by side and Arya was pleased to discover that, perhaps, finally, she'd found somewhere else who understood what little-Arya had always wanted.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updated! I didn't get as much writing done over break as I would have liked but I have made some progress and should be back on schedule. As always, please enjoy and feel free to comment - I love to discuss! 
> 
> Special note: *I spent about ten hours total watching videos about blacksmithing, sword-making, and other related topics. Below are links to sword part diagrams and two of the most helpful (and cool!) videos I watched  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rmBPV8cN7Cw
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TEktwaAsv_Y&t=216s
> 
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/6c/66/45/6c66458f385d272df51e94740f25f12f.png
> 
> http://users.netonecom.net/~swordman/SwordMaking/pix/parts.jpg


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Before, when the rooms had been empty, the halls drafty, it had been far worse. With the rooms shut up and everything covered in dust, it had been sad – to see a place once so full of life so dull. And in the night, the settling of the castle and the howling of the wind in the empty space had seemed like the footsteps of ghosts._

Luckily, Gendry remembered who Sam was. Jon meant Samwell Tarly, his friend from the Night’s Watch who’d gone South to become a Maester and come North a thief of Oldtown’s great library. There he’d taken books and scrolls that would be their salvation: instructions on how to forge dragonglass, histories of the First Men, legends, books of medicines, accounts of the Dark Night, and more that might make the difference between their destruction and life.

That thought, and one other, made his heart race as he and Jon walked quickly from the Godswood to the greater courtyard. Gendry was taller than Jon, but had to jog a little to keep up with him – clearly this was another long-awaited reunion.

They passed under the stone archway that marked the barrier between the courtyard and the Godswood and slowed. Lots of people were milling about and everything was in commotion. On the far side of the yard Gendry spotted a wagon and three people climbing down: a very large man dressed all in black – Sam most likely – a slight young woman with dark blonde hair, and a giggling toddler. Gendry had no idea who the woman and child were, and was especially confused by Sam’s familiarity with her: he took the toddler in his arms, hoisting the little boy onto his hip, before extending a hand to the woman, helping her down, and giving her a peck on the cheek.

Gendry knew that men of the Night’s Watch were not supposed to marry or have children – and while the little one didn’t look anything like Samwell Tarly … he couldn’t help but be confused. Had the rules changed?

 Jon picked up his quick pace even further and jogged across the yard, dodging people and making hasty apologies.

Gendry did not speed up, but took his time weaving through the mass of people. As he approached, unease grew in his stomach. He felt his left eye begin to twitch. Oh dear…

The secondary thought. No one had asked him! No one had bothered. And now his shortcomings might be their downfall. For there, in the back of the cart, was an enormous, leather-bound trunk – a trunk that surely contained books.

 Jon hadn’t batted an eye at the fact that he was a lowborn. No one looked down on Gendry for his status but … he still couldn’t _read_.

When he had come into Tobho Mott’s service – Gendry guessed he was around nine years old, though he wasn’t sure – the man had complained that he was too old to learn his letters. More likely, lessons would have been time-consuming and expensive. Mott had made sure he could sign his name, but he could only copy the letters. He could do small things with figures by making tally marks on a sheet of parchment but reading, really reading…

He had tried before. Spent many nights in Kings Landing, after escaping the Red Witch, combing over spare parchments and contracts that had been left around the shop. He tried to sound out the letters – like some of the other apprentices had tried to teach him to do when he was little – but to no avail. Eventually he just got frustrated and had to go hammer something to cool down.

Memories rushed through his head as he edged closer to the cart. He was a lowborn – or had been a lowborn? But he had also been a craftsmen. And craftsmen’s apprentices had to know how to read and write – to set prices, to make contracts, to bill and pay taxes… and he had been made well aware of his shortcoming. In years with Tobho Mott, he was set aside for favor of other boys when it came time to take inventory. One lad in particular – Shinny, they called him, or sometimes _Shitty_ when he was being an arse – found mocking Gendry to be a particular delight. In trying to find work upon his return to King’s Landing, Gendry’s inability to read and write had made life difficult and he had found himself in several precarious situations as a result – often relying on other smiths and landlords to be honest when reading something to him.

Gendry made his final steps to the cart, crossing behind Jon, and could practically hear Shinny calling him names: ‘Stupid bull – even slower than you look. O’ course you can’t teach a cow t’ read.” _Stupid bull_. He’d never told Arya that he couldn’t read – he hadn’t needed to on the road. But he had imagined that she would have had a right laugh. Or maybe she wouldn’t have …

Just then, he saw Arya and Brienne of Tarth walk through the archway from the inner courtyard. He turned away and tried to press down his inner thoughts.

Jon was helping Sam unload the big trunk from the cart – or rather Jon was lifting the trunk while Sam clutched helplessly to one handle. For such a big man … well it was clear that Sam was not fit and rather fat beneath his Night’s Watch blacks. Of course, that made Gendry think of Hot Pie. But that was where the resemblance stopped.

Where Hot Pie always had a vacant look about him – a sort-of _lights are on but nobody’s home_ expression – Sam was attentive and observant. His eyes were a bit squinty, like the sort of person who spent too many hours reading in the dark. And where Hot Pie was always complaining – Sam was smiling from ear to ear.

Jon set down the trunk and stepped to the ground. He immediately turned to face Sam and the two friends embraced. Gendry could see that they were more than friends – brothers. And for a moment he wondered what might have become of him, had he made it to the Wall.

Jon turned ‘round and Gendry saw that he was smiling for the second time that day – a truly unusual thing – and he didn’t stop smiling as he introduced Gendry to Sam.

“Gendry,” Jon ushered him forward. “Gendry, this is Samwell Tarly. And his lady, Gilly, and her son, Sam.”

Gendry looked quizzical at that and Sam laughed “Oh, I know that look – everybody gives it to me. Sam isn’t mine – I haven’t broken _all_ my vows!”

Sam then seemed to think better of what he had said and turned a miraculous shade of pink. Jon interrupted by continuing introductions: “Anyways, Sam this is Gendry. Saved my arse North o’ the wall. And he’ll be taking charge of forging the dragonglass.”

Sam’s grin seemed to grow even wider as he said, “Wonderful! I’ve been looking through all the books on it – and it seems there’s some fairly good information. But I know nothing about smithing an’ I haven’t a clue what most of it all means.”

Sam shook Gendry’s hand. “Besides, any friend of Jon’s is a friend of mine!” And with that, he turned and began unloading more sacks from the cart.

Jon had crossed over to the center of the courtyard, leading Gilly. He had picked up the younger Sam and was bouncing him in his arms as he spoke with Arya, Brienne, and Sansa – who had joined the others. They shook hands and Sansa curtsied and all that nonsense, before Jon turned and pointed to big Sam, who waved. Gendry, feeling stupid standing around, began to help unload the wagon too. Not that he didn’t notice Arya looking at him before he looked away.

The look hadn’t been … well bloody-thirsty or murderous. Not pleasant, per se, but a long mile better than days before. And Gendry took that as a good sign.

When he again turned around, Jon, Sansa, and Arya had left – presumably to show Gilly where she and Sam and … Sam would be staying. Brienne stayed behind for a moment, but merely hefted bags of luggage onto her shoulders, nodded at Sam in greeting, and followed after the others.

That left Gendry with the trunk full of books. He stared down at it. The trunk seemed to stare back – or maybe his nervous thoughts were getting the better of him.

Sam surprised him by clapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t look so glum now! It’s not that heavy,” he said, then laughed.

Gendry responded, stuttering “It’s not – I can … It’s not the weight. There’s just so many …”

“So many books? I know – I took whatever I could, just in case. But don’ worry. You won’t be combing through them alone. Besides I’ve already marked the passages that look helpful.”

“It’s not that.” Gendry surprised himself as words began to pour forth: “I can’t read. I never learned how. I barely know my letters. I’ve tried to learn some, on my own, but I can’t even sound out th’ words without help.”

Sam’s mouth popped open in surprise for just a moment, but he quickly shut it and smiled again. “Well now, there’s nothin’ to be worried about there neither. We’ll find what’s good and read it aloud. Besides, Gilly just learned how t’ read. She can help you or even teach you if you have a spare moment. We brought some learners books for her and little Sam.”

“Wait, Gilly can’t read? I thought she was a Lady…”

Sam laughed again. “No, no, no. I s’pose no one has told you the story, but you see, Gilly is from north of the Wall.”

“Like Tormund?”

“No, she came with us well before Tormund came around. And Little Sam when he was just a baby. My first mission up there and there was all sorts of terrible things happening. No place for her and a little one.”

“But the Night’s Watch—”

“Jon made sure we didn’t have any problems. He’s good like that. And he won’t be having any problems with you neither.”

And with that Sam strode off, following the direction that the others had left, leaving Gendry very confused … and with a very heavy trunk.

 

* * *

 

Arya followed Sansa, Jon, and Gilly up the stairs into the family wing of Winterfell – Brienne and Sam had fallen behind carrying luggage.

All of the suites that had once belonged to her family were now occupied by Jon’s closest friends and the remaining Starks: Sansa was in their parents’ old room, Jon was in Robb’s, the Queen was in Sansa’s, Arya was in Rickon’s, Bran was in his own, and now Sam and Gilly were in hers. It should have seemed strange – to have people she barely knew living in her childhood home, to have everything jumbled around – but this was better than before. Before, when the rooms had been empty, the halls drafty, it had been far worse. With the rooms shut up and everything covered in dust, it had been sad – to see a place once so full of life so dull. And in the night, the settling of the castle and the howling of the wind in the empty space had seemed like the footsteps of ghosts.

Now, the halls hummed faintly with sounds like crackling fires and soft conversation – and now toddler’s laughter. For Little Sam was quite excited to see his new abode. He waved his arms and laughed as his mother walked into the room. He babbled at her – something that was completely unintelligible to Arya but apparently understandable to Gilly – so she set him down. He took wobbly steps as he explored the room with his mother standing close watch.

Arya had never had any particular opinion on children. She remembered some things from when Bran and Rickon were babies – a lot of crying and pulling of hair came to mind first. She remembered when Rickon had been born especially: her father had brought all of the children up to her mother’s room and they had each gotten a turn to hold the baby – except for Bran, who was almost a babe himself. Arya had stepped up to the bed first, pushing past Sansa, and stood on tiptoe to look at the bundle in her mother’s arms. Upon seeing the, red, squishy-faced little boy she had exclaimed that he looked like a squirrel.

Robb had smacked her on the back of the head and told her to be nice while her father laughed, and her mother smiled. Arya had resented that whap, but forgot all about it holding Rickon in her arms. He had looked up at her and smiled – so she had stated that he was actually a very cute squirrel. Sansa had gone last and held him for over an hour. She had cooed over Rickon for days – until he had first puked on her.

Now Sansa had the same sort of look on her face: she loved children and looked at Little Sam with awe. She knelt, crouching to his level, and began babbling nonsense back at him as he “talked” to her.

Brienne and Sam came up the stairs at last and Arya stepped out of the way to allow Brienne to drop her luggage. Seeing that the room was much too crowded, Brienne nodded, bowed and left, with Sam and Jon following – saying something about getting some food.

Arya had just sat down on the bed when she heard grunting in the stairwell. She poked her head out and wanted to laugh: Gendry was standing on the landing, red-faced and panting, carrying the trunk full of books. Even for someone as strong as a smith, it was a long way from the courtyard to the bedrooms and that trunk was enormous.

Arya decided to offer her aid – like allies or friends should do she supposed – and said, “Here, let me help with that,” reaching for one handle.

Gendry averted his gaze, looking at the floor, and replied: “I can get it! Really, ‘s no trouble.”

Stupid bull. She ignored him and grabbed one end of the trunk. He reluctantly released the handle and she let out a slight ‘oof.’ _Gods-above_ was this full of books or bricks?

They awkwardly carried the luggage into the room, maneuvering it carefully through the narrow hallway and door.

Gilly pointed to a corner of the room by a table and they set it down with a thud. Arya stood and stretched her fingers; Gendry’s back cracked. Damn heavy thing.

Seconds after he got himself sorted out, Gendry left in a hurry: he nodded to Gilly, who thanked him, inclined his head to Sansa, and gave Arya a startled once over before turning a little red and rushing out.

Arya decided in that moment that _this_ simply would not do. Sure, she had tried to bash in his head with a rock, but she wasn’t a monster! He didn’t have to be afraid of her. Or rather, she wanted him to be a little bit afraid, but no more than anyone else.

She was still angry. And there were so many things left unsaid but … there wasn’t time for this. For squabbling. For fear. The end of the bloody world was nigh, and she found that – to her surprise – she missed her friend. She had missed him before, despite the way in which they had parted. A thousand times with the Hound and in Bravos and after she had returned to Westeros, she had missed him, wishing that Gendry was there to laugh or to make jokes or to argue with or just to _help_ (she had wished for Hot Pie when trying her first attempt at pies in Walder Frey’s castle). And in those times she had missed him, it had made her sad, a few times near to weeping, because she had thought him to be dead.

And telling their story to Jon last night, she had realized that she should be grateful – so few people she cared about were alive and Gendry had practically come back from the dead. She should be happy to see him, and she wanted to be now. She wanted to be his friend again … And that simply wasn’t possible with him being so afraid of her.

While Arya had been musing, Little Sam had made his way to the door. He tried to open it, reaching for the handle far above his head, and his mother was reaching to pull him back when the door opened. The toddler made a break for it and was snatched up by the figure on the other side.

The Dragon Queen picked him up and set him on her hip, as Gilly began making frantic apologies and curtseying: “I’m so sorry Yer Grace! He’s just so little. I can take him back now!”

The Queen waved away her apologies, looking into Sam’s eyes and smiling. “No need. None at all. I’m quite pleased to meet him.”

She nodded at Little Sam, saying something like, “Yes, I am little one! Yes, indeed,” in the high sort-of voice people reserved for babies and pets.

Little Sam laughed, and the Queen did too, exclaiming, “Why aren’t you a jolly little fellow!” Gilly relaxed, and Sansa smiled too – perhaps this was something the Queen and her sister might have in common, for it was certain Gilly would have two eager ladies to assist her in looking after the boy.

Watching the Queen, Arya remembered what Jon had told her and felt a pang of sorrow for Daenerys. This was what the Dragon Queen had wanted, had almost had, and it had been taken from her, like so many other things.

Sansa was now introducing the Queen to Gilly, and the Queen surprised Arya and Sansa both by insisting they all call her “Daenerys.”

“I’ve no need for the formality here,” she was saying, “and besides, I should like to keep closer company with you. It’s been ages since I’ve had any women to talk to other than Missandei. And – ” she was cooing at Sam again, “I should love to spend more time with this gallant little man.”

Gilly replied that she would be happy for the help, and Sansa, still looking confused at the lack formality, agreed to the same.

The elder Sam and Jon came back to the room then, carrying a small plate of cheese, bread, and sweets. Jon introduced a now less-jolly looking Sam to the Queen while the Queen took a cookie from the plate and broke off pieces for Little Sam.

In that moment things became very tense, as the Queen, Jon, and Sansa realized, simultaneously, that he was Samwell _Tarly_ _of Hornhill_ and she had killed his father and brother less than two months ago. Arya supposed that was what Jon had wanted to speak to Sam about.

Daenerys handed little Sam off to his mother. She inclined her head and spoke when she lifted it, “I am … truly sorry about your father and brother. I … war is difficult. There are many choices to be made and … I was likely rash. I am not … I do not know if it was the right decision or not but … I do apologize if I have caused you any grief. And …” she looked to Jon, “… if you would take me as your Queen, I would reinstate you as the heir of Hornhill – release you from your Night’s Watch vow since … well, since there will be no need for the Watch anymore after this war, one way or another.”

Sam looked solemn but also surprised. He thought, and Arya could see the confliction in his face. He finally spoke: “I did not love my father. He did not love me. He disowned me, threatened to kill me, and forced me to join the Night’s Watch. But in spite of all that, he was my father and my mother loved him – she will be devastated.”

The Queen nodded.

“You will owe her the same apology as I. And as for my brother…” his voice broke, “I did love my brother. And he was irrevocably loyal to my father. And my father was a fool, a fool to oppose you, but an honorable fool who my brother mimicked till the last. I cannot forgive you for my brother.”

The Queen looked at the ground again, clasping her hands.

“But …”

She looked up. Sam looked to Gilly, then to the Queen:

“But, I will accept your offer. There should be someone to look after Hornhill, my mother, my sister … and the Night’s Watch is finished. There is nothing left for us at the Wall. And, well … we need to work together to defeat what’s coming. Jon trusts you, I trust Jon, and I sure bloody well do trust that your dragons can kill White Walkers so…” He paused.

“Promise me this: you will be an honourable Queen. The kind of Queen we need who doesn’t take innocent lives. Who protects the innocent.” He took Gilly’s hand and continued, “who protects my family - the family I chose - and I will swear loyalty to you.”

The Queen nodded, cleared her throat, and spoke solemnly, “I do swear.”

Sam nodded back and the tension in the room eased ever so slightly.

Jon clasped Sam’s shoulder, saying something about leaving he and Gilly to get settled. Sansa proposed that they all meet for dinner later, in their mother’s solar, so they might talk about important matters. She did not reveal Bran’s cryptic message about needing to speak to Sam.

They all left, filling out the door past Sam and Gilly, who, upon closer inspection, looked absolutely travel worn and weary.

Jon and the Queen left first and held muffled conversation as they walked to the meeting room in the far tower. Arya caught up with Sansa and they made their way silently to the battlements: Arya needed to finish her afternoon training and Sansa needed to be at the meeting with Daenerys and Jon but… they took a moment to stand on the wall and look out.

Arya supposed this would be their new place for conversation – it was a good place to think and talk – a vast empty landscape stretching in front of them, falling snow or wind covering their words.

Sansa spoke first, “I knew some of what had happened at that battle. But I did not know or think about …” she shook her head. “I did not think about house Tyrell. Or the other houses. So many great houses have gone extinct. Lines ended forever – Margaery and Loras and Lady Olenna…” Sansa’s voice shuddered, and she stopped speaking.

Arya ventured a question, “You knew the Tyrells well?”

“They were kind to me. At one point I thought I might marry Ser Loras – never mind that at the time I didn’t know he was … well not interested in women. But I wouldn’t have cared either way. He was my chance to escape. And Margaery … she was so kind to me, Arya, my only friend in all that time. She could sway Joffrey, and as long as she kept her attention, he ignored me – mostly. I knew when they died but …” she shook her head again. “Now Lady Olenna. All of their cousins. The Queen of Thorns was no sweetheart, but she was kind to me – I think … I think she was the only person who cared what happened to me. The only person in that dung heap that realized I was a _child_. And now she’s gone.”

Sansa’s eyes widened as she thought and paused. “It’s all just gone. We might have been them. And not just them: the Martells, the Greenwoods, the Freys, the Tullys  … who knows what might become of them.”

Sansa stopped speaking and they both labored in thought. Arya however was not thinking about the Freys or the Martells or the Greenwoods. First, she thought that she might tell Sansa what she knew: that Edmure Tully, their mother’s brother was still alive, still detained by the Lannisters and Freys - supposedly mad from nigh on six years of imprisonment - but she decided against it. Then, she was thinking about Gendry, about what might become of the last Baratheon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost all the babes are in one place! Only a few more to gather! SHIT IS GONNA GO DOWN! Enjoy.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In all the time she had spent overseas, Arya had not ridden a horse. She feared for a time, upon her return, that she might have forgotten how to ride. But her fears were all for naught, because, when she’d first pushed her old mare – that she’d bought with stolen silver – into a trot, then a canter, then a wild gallop alone on the Kingsroad, all of her instincts had returned to her at once, along with a flood of wonderful memories. She’d wanted to holler for joy, to scream or laugh, but she had not wanted to draw attention to herself. So, instead, she had howled like a wolf – it was the most realistic call she could make, thanks to men of the Brotherhood – and the road had stayed empty and quiet until the old mare had tired and she had stopped running._

Arya spent all of two hours training with Brienne before heavy snow clouds moved in, the sun neared the horizon, and it became dark outside. When it became too dim to see and practice properly, Arya bid Brienne goodbye and went outside the walls of Winterfell to explore the war camp – a thousand fires and a thousand peoples beckoned her attention.

She wandered for ages, through the camps of Northmen already preparing dinner, past large hearth-fires of craftsmen and families who were seeking shelter in the territory of Winterfell, past the hastily built cooking fires of many people who stopped at Winterfell before fleeing South, and finally past the encampments of the Queen’s Unsullied soldiers – they were more subdued than other fighting men, but they still laughed and ate and drank more boisterously than any others she had seen during her time in Westeros.

This Arya saw as good tidings for her decision to support the Queen. She knew these men were no longer slaves, but it was not just in name as it seemed that all had found the freedom to enjoy living. As a passing thought, Arya wondered when she might do the same.

All this time while Arya was wandering, no one noticed her. She slipped quietly past, like a shadow. But she was noticed when she arrived at the Dothraki encampment: their sentries did not pass over any nameless shadow. And these men did not settle in for the night as soon as darkness fell: No, many were still practicing – shooting and fighting with their araks – by the light of a thousand campfires.

Arya spent more time there than she should have. She loved to watch them fight and train. She loved to jest with the few men who spoke the common tongue – those she had trained with on previous days. But best of all, she loved to watch their horses.

In all the time she had spent overseas, Arya had not ridden a horse. She feared for a time, upon her return, that she might have forgotten how to ride. But her fears were all for naught, because, when she’d first pushed her old mare – that she’d bought with stolen silver – into a trot, then a canter, then a wild gallop alone on the Kingsroad, all of her instincts had returned to her at once, along with a flood of wonderful memories. She’d wanted to holler for joy, to scream or laugh, but she had not wanted to draw attention to herself. So, instead, she had howled like a wolf – it was the most realistic call she could make, thanks to men of the Brotherhood – and the road had stayed empty and quiet until the old mare had tired and she had stopped running.

The Dothraki horses were a thousand times stronger, better, faster, than that sweet old mare had been and Arya longed to ride – but the Dothraki were possessive of their mounts and she had not yet earned her own.

 _“_ Yet,” she thought as she watched boys and men gallop across the winter fields, “I have not earned one _yet_.”

She was still watching when the evening bells tolled in Wintertown and Arya cursed herself as she ran back to the castle. Shit, shit, shit! She was late for dinner with the Queen. And while it wasn’t a formal occasion, Sansa would surely rebuke her for being late – especially if she showed up smelling like sweat, dung, and horse. She would fuss at her like Septa Mordane – like their mother. And that made Arya more sad than irritable.

She saw the Bull as she ran, but elected to ignore him. She was pretty sure he didn’t see her. In fact, Arya made it back to her room without being bothered or seen (they still needed better guards. The current ones hadn’t even stopped her on her way inside the gates). She threw on a fresh tunic and pulled back her hair … and, as a last thought, grabbed her dragon-bone and Valyrian steel dagger.

Because … something felt wrong. Something had felt wrong since this afternoon, when Sam had arrived. Arya could feel it in her bones. Smell it, almost. She had a gut feeling that _something_ was going to go terribly wrong this evening.

So, she grabbed the dagger - and slipped another knife into her boot for good measure – assessed herself in the mirror, and began the long trek up to her parents’ solar.

 

* * *

 

Gendry spent the rest of the day working, desperately trying to stop thinking. All he wanted was a clear head – to clear his head before night fell or he would never sleep.

He finished the mail shirt, but the delicate work couldn’t keep his focus. He hammered out dents in an enormous steel shield; but, even when he was exhausted and sweating, his thoughts still sprinted. He even worked at the grinding wheel – a task he hated for how mind-numbing it usually was – but his stomach still churned.

By evenfall, he gave up and sat alone in the forge with his dinner, allowing his swirling thoughts to pull him under:

_Dragonglass. Reading. Stupid. Reading. Dragonglass. Dead men. Dead Gendry. Stupid… Arya._

_No._

_Dragonglass. Dragons. Fire. Forge temperatures. Glass? Steel. Swords… Arya._

_No._

_Dragonglass. Forge temperatures. Shaping. Bending. Hammering. Glass …_

_Reading. Plans. Scorpions … war machines? Dragonglass arrows? Dragonglass spears?_

_Dead dragon. Dragon wight. Dead men. Dead Gendry. Stupid… Arya._

_No!_

He nearly shouted aloud as he moved from his perch on the lip of the forge window to sit on a bench outside: he couldn’t stop thinking about Arya! And that look she’d given him earlier that day. What in seven-hells had that meant?

It was cold – she always looked cold these days – but it wasn’t … angry. It was scary. She was always scary, but it wasn’t … frightening per se. It wasn’t anger directed at him. But it had been assessing. Like she was sizing him up.

If she really was a wolf, he would have feared she was going to eat him. But Arya was not really a wolf (most of the time) and she had been looking at him funny and it made his head hurt to think about it!

Gendry was still sitting on the bench, ale in hand, mulling over that stupid look when he saw her again.

She was running in that strange, silent way of hers: graceful and so quiet that he wasn’t surprised when no one else seemed to notice her.

Arya stuck to the shadows. Even in the safety of Winterfell, she still moved from dark spot to dark spot, treading carefully on rocks and avoiding mud and leaves such that she made no sound. When he looked up and noticed her, she glanced at him, turning aside almost immediately.

It was a dismissive look – at least he knew what that meant. But the fact that she had bothered to look at him at all …

This time, Gendry really did groan aloud. And he lay down on the bench, hitting his head hard, before covering his eyes and massaging his aching temples.

 

* * *

 

Arya was not on time for dinner. Much of the food was cold by the time she arrived: leg of mutton, salted greens, dark bread, ale and two special treats: goose – one of the last few stragglers flying South for the winter – and a bit of fine wine that Sam had brought from the South. There was only enough for one cup each, but the Queen and Sansa thanked Sam thoroughly for the gift. Arya, who didn’t really care for the taste of wine, gave her cup to Sansa by way of apology for her lateness. It soothed her.

Arya stuck with ale and tried to avoid conversation. Everyone else chatted amicably about nothing, and even with the pleasant company and good food there was an undercurrent of tension as they all struggled to avoid speaking about what was really on their minds: war, death, white walkers, weapons, the fate of the world; even such banal topics as the weather only indicated the fate they were facing. No, it was much simpler to talk about the food and far off places and needlework.

As warm and intimate as the meal was intended to be, it was still too formal for Arya and she felt out of place. Here was a King, a Queen, ladies, lords, and a greenseer – men and women who would decide the fate of the world. And Arya preferred the company of soldiers.

She never sat at the high table, always down below with the Northmen and Wildlings where she could jape and challenge them to drinking contests and lick the grease off her fingers without rebuke. Here, she could feel Sansa’s gaze on her, and, while she continued to eat and drink as she pleased, she did care what Sansa thought, if only because it upset her sister.

Sansa was sick of soldiers and hard living. She was also sick of the sycophants and false elegance and courtesies of the South. So, Arya knew, Sansa had nowhere to go. No dreams to imagine and no hopes to hope. Nothing to face but reality – and Arya wanted that reality to be as pleasant as it could be. Jon did too.

Arya had originally been angry with Sansa, imaging that her path filled with finery had been pleasant. But Sansa had lived in a gilded cage and Arya saw now that, perhaps, a life in the wild was better. Sansa had grown cold and she needed a little kindness.

Arya was not kind or gentle or sweet, but she wasn’t going to make it any worse. So, she sat up straight and ate with utensils and listened quietly to Sam telling stories.

He was a great storyteller. Every leg of his journey was an adventure to his eye, and he laughed and gasped and waved his arms animatedly as he described their path South, his time in Oldtown, and their journey North again.

Little Sam was by far the most entertained listener – waving his arms and clapping while his mother tried to feed him mashed potatoes and soft bread chunks – but Jon was a close second. He smiled and laughed heartily and by the time desert came, Arya’s heart was full to bursting seeing Jon so happy.

The Queen listened quietly, smiling now and again. Brienne interjected questions. Sansa was enraptured by little Sam, but also seemed fascinated by Sam’s discussion of his work at the Citadel. In another life, Arya thought, Sansa would have made a fine healer.

The only person who said nothing and did nothing, was Bran. He ate slowly, methodically, as though he didn’t enjoy the food but only needed it for sustenance. He never moved from his place by the hearth and never stopped staring at the far wall, eyes thousands of miles away.

Arya remembered what he had said: he needed to speak with Sam and Jon about something very important. She felt a shiver, the same chill feeling from earlier and grabbed the hilt of her knife for comfort.

When Bran’s gaze finally moved, she met his eye and knew his big announcement was forthcoming.

 She wished she could ask him to wait. She wished they could stave off the coming winter. She wished she could banish the spirit of the three-eyed raven from her brother’s mind, hold him close, and let Jon and Sansa and Gilly and Little Sam stay in this warm, happy place forever – a forever summer, locked away in this little room. But the end of the world was coming.

Arya locked eyes with Bran again, thinking, “Be gentle. Be truthful. And this had better be important or I will gut you, three-eyed raven or no.”

He blinked. Perhaps he heard her. Or perhaps it was because Sansa had noticed their little staring contest.

“Bran, is there something we can get you?” Sansa said.

“Do you see something Bran? Is everything alright?” Jon asked.

Bran breathed deeply and said softly – he always spoke so softly, but it made Arya tremble to hear his voice that was both his and not his: “I have answers for you, Jon. I have answers for the Queen.”

He turned to Daenerys, “‘The Dragon has three heads.’ You’ve been wondering for years, what it means. I can tell you.” The Queen paled. Jon subtly took her hand under the table. Arya saw it, of course.

He faced Jon again, “We have to understand the past to face the future and I have seen it all. Will you know it, all of it?”

Jon nodded. The room had turned cold. Little Sam stopped babbling and Bran’s eyes seemed to frost over and glow from within.

*“I can see things that happened in the past. I can see things happening now, all over the world.” Sam, who had not yet heard this little introduction, looked rather astonished, but this was not news to Arya or Sansa or Jon.

He continued: *“Jon, you need to know the truth … about yourself. No one knows. No one but me.” He paused, thinking, “Father knew. He was going to tell you about your mother the next time he saw you, but he went South.”

Jon nodded and spoke, by way of explanation, “I never knew who my mother was. Father refused to tell me.”

“He never even told Mother,” Sansa said quietly, “He brought that secret to his grave. For a long time, I thought it was … maybe because he loved her more than Mother at the beginning, since their marriage was arranged. So, it must be difficult for him to talk about – but … later I thought maybe it was because your mother must have been someone important.”

Bran nodded. *“Jon isn’t really my father’s son. He was his nephew, our cousin, the son of Fathers’ sister, Lyanna Stark.”

He let the statement settle. Jon clutched Dany’s hand tightly and everyone else merely stared at Bran, wide eyed. Arya couldn’t breathe even as her thoughts reeled – of course. It all made sense now: why father would never talk about Jon’s mother, why Lyanna had died, and truly their father never had besmirched his honor … But he had never told Mother. Why? And Jon’s father …

Jon said as much, asking, “And my father, Bran? If Father … if Eddard wasn’t my father?”

*“You are the son our Aunt Lyanna Stark and of Rhaegar Targaryen. You were born in a tower in Dorne and your mother died giving birth to you. Afterwards, Father took you, to care for you and protect you.”

Dany withdrew her hand from Jon’s; Jon looked pained and angry. Sansa was stunned. Sam looked confused. The room was quiet, but it seemed to Arya that she could hear everyone’s thoughts screaming.

Sansa murmured, *“So his last name isn’t Snow. Its Sand.”

Arya spoke next, all the pieces clicking into place, “And bastard or no, Robert Baratheon, would have hunted you to the ends of the earth. For being Rhaegar’s son. That’s why Father never told a soul – not even Mother. He was protecting you.”

Jon’s anger seemed to settle into sadness, perhaps a little fear. Dany withdrew even farther into herself and Arya suddenly realized why: this made Jon … her cousin? No, her nephew. And they were … Oh, gods.

Abruptly, Sam spoke up, *“It’s not.”

“What, Sam?” said Jon, irritated.

“Your last name it isn’t Sand.” Sam was excited and you could see his thoughts racing.

Sansa didn’t sense the forthcoming explanation, instead saying, *“Dornish bastards are named Sand.”

*“No, you don’t understand he … I ... at the Citadel I transcribed the High Septon’s diary. Well, Gilly was reading it aloud while I transcribed it.” He turned to Gilly, “Remember the one with the steps and the shits!” Gilly seemed to understand what he was talking about, and her eyes widened.

Arya wanted to laugh; everyone looked confused. Sam turned red but continued: *“He annulled Rhaegar’s marriage to Elia Martell and he wed Rhaegar and Lyanna in a secret ceremony.”

“Bran, is this true?” Arya asked. It seemed preposterous.

Bran’s eyes took on a faraway look. They moved as he searched, and the room was quiet for what felt like an eternity. Finally, he merely replied, “Yes.”

Jon spoke, angrily: “What difference does it make if I am a bastard or if he married her? He kidnapped her. He … my father _raped_ my mother. And I … I am the product of that.” He stood and it seemed he would leave, but Bran spoke quickly, softly: “No, you don’t understand. Rhaegar didn’t kidnap my aunt, or rape her,” he paused and tilted his head, “he loved her.”

“Robert’s Rebellion was built on a lie,” Sansa whispered, almost to herself.

Bran continued, not listening: *“And Jon … Jon’s real name is Aegon Targaryen.”

Dany stood and Arya could tell she was blinking away tears. She looked at Bran, then at Jon, then fled the room, running. Jon called after her and made for the door. Before he left, he looked at Sam and shook his head. Sam’s eyes were full of apologies. Jon looked to Bran – Bran did not react – and anger flared in his gaze before he turned and ran after the Queen, calling her name.

*“He is the heir to the Iron Throne,” Sam said quietly to himself, horrified at the statement and the realization of what he had done: intentionally or no, he had jeopardized their diplomatic relationship – and another less diplomatic relationship as well. He stood and left to follow Jon and Gilly followed him with Baby Sam on her hip.

The fire crackled, logs burning low and the tension in the air became so thick it was unbearable.

Finally, Sansa stood. Anger and hurt filled her eyes as she turned to look at Bran. He did not meet her gaze as she said, “Bran … I know you have this … gift. And it’s important that Jon know his own history but …” she searched for words, and her tone turned accusatory, “You shouldn’t have said that. We need this alliance. And Jon – what does it matter if his name is Snow or Sand or Aegon Targaryen!?”

“I’m sorry, sister,” he replied, but the apology was hollow. “It had to be done.”

Sansa shook her head and her lip curled with anger as she stalked out of the room, her fur cloak swirling.

Arya and Bran sat in silence for a long time and the sound of the wind outside grew stronger. It howled as it swirled around the tower – searching for an open window and finding none. Arya knew there would be a hearty layer of snow tomorrow.

At last Bran spoke again, and his voice … it wasn’t empty or echoing or faraway as it usually seemed. It was quiet but sounded more human – more like the young man Bran was supposed to be – than it usually did as he said, “He needs to know.” Worse still, he sounded sorrowful.

“Perhaps, you shouldn’t have told him,” Arya said softly, but, even as she said it, she knew she was wrong.

When she had killed Polliver and gotten Needle back, it had been important that he knew who she was. When Arya had been hiding at Harrenhal, her nickname – the Ghost of Harrenhal – had struck fear into the heart of the soldiers, and it had been important. When she had left the Faceless Men and finally killed Walder Frey and all his sons, she hadn’t done it as No One. It was important that they knew she was a wolf.

Arya wanted to believe that Jon could have lived his whole life without knowing that he was really called Aegon Targaryen (Gods what a stupid sounding name). But Arya had learned the importance of titles, and names, and no-names.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-yo I actually managed to update within one week of the last update! Look at me being productive. In truth, I'm feeling the press of finishing this story before Season 8 comes out - I want to complete my narrative before we see what actually happens.  
> A reminder that, in my story-line, Sam and Bran haven't talked about Jon's lineage yet, so I incorporated that dialogue into this chapter. Asterisks * indicate dialogue that I adapted from the final episode of Season 7. As always, enjoy!
> 
> **Okay guys, I keep getting a ton of comments about my portrayal of Jon/Dany and I would like to, respectfully request, that people stop. This fic is not meant to be about Jon and Dany. MY portrayal of their relationship WILL NOT BE: soulmates, cutesy, lovey-dovey, without conflict, etc. because they are related and I WILL NOT SUPPORT INCEST in any way, shape, or form. Futhermore, no relationship in this fic will be depicted without conflict because this world is not without conflict, PEOPLE CONFLICT. These characters have suffered trauma. They are imperfect, multi-faceted, and dynamic. If you would like to read a fic without these aspects, please make another choice - my slow-burn, enemies to lovers, end-of-the-world story is probably not your cup of tea.

**Author's Note:**

> More chapters to come for sure! Irregular updates because I have school. I pride myself on accuracy so let me know if any details are not compliant with Season 7.


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